Matchmaker
by MastersofNight
Summary: A touch of Leroux, a hint of Kay. Nadir convinces Erik to use the services of a matchmaker, meeting a widow who enjoys Opera and turning upside down the life of an Opera Ghost. EOW.
1. Chapter 1

**Category: **Book, Phantom of the Opera

**Genre:** Romance/Humor

**Rating:** T

**Summary: **A touch of Leroux, a hint of Kay. Post Leroux, Nadir convinces Erik to use the services of a matchmaker, meeting a widow who enjoys Opera.

**Disclaimer:** It was a momentary madness spurred on by Nadir...I swear! Thanks to Leroux and Kay for their inspiration and people who find mature love as poignant and painful as it is for teenagers.

* * *

**Part One: Matchmaker**

The outer office was tiny, dim, and smelled of cigars. At the desk sat a bored looking young man who read the names off the list for the next person to go in. Across from where she sat was a row of chairs with two gentlemen and another woman who were also waiting their turn. Occasionally the inner door would open, disgorging another hopeful prospect that had come to secure the services of the matchmaker.

It had been over three years since her husband had died after a series of strokes. It had been easy to seclude herself in her despair; Germans overrunning Paris, a new Communard government, and their subsequent removal from power by a hail of bullets and a new regime in again. The later part of the century was not looking to be a pleasant time to live as a widow.

She'd left the little town she knew and moved to Paris to get a job at one of the factories. It was back breaking and demeaning work, but paid enough for her to share a small miserable walk-up with four other women of her circumstance.

As one of the woman always chatted up a store clerk, she managed to bring home the latest Paris paper. One evening, sitting before the fender of their tiny coal fire, she burned a lamp and read over the advertisements from that paper, and made note of an unusual matchmaker's claim to match up any one no matter the circumstance.

Taking fate into her own hands, she now sat in the office waiting her turn. She was finally ushered in after sitting for nearly an hour, watching several men and a nearly hysterical woman take their turns. As she brushed past the woman, she blathered something about "hideous…oaf….arrogant…." All the things Mirielle Montalais was not hoping to find in a suitor.

The man in the careworn suit behind the desk waved her to a chair with a cigar. Sitting on the edge, she folded her hands over her bag and waited for him to begin. He flipped open a folder "Widow, forty-one years old, adult children, one grandchild, now residing in Paris, job at the mill." He flipped to another sheet "hmm. Um hummm…mmm…, music…oh! You like Opera?" He suddenly lit up.

"Yes, Monsieur," she replied, was that so unusual? "My husband played violin you see."

He jumped to his feet and went to a blackboard on which a calendar had been sketched. "Can you be available next Tuesday," he asked.

Surprised, she replied, "I think so."

"You _think_ so," he fairly tsked. "Is Madame willing to meet a man or not?"

She hated people pressuring her; really she was just off guard. She raised her chin a notch, "Of course, Monsieur."

"Very good! I will let your prospective gentleman know," he grasped her hand, helping her to her feet. "He's a bit eccentric, but he really is quite a gentleman, and commands quite a lot of resources," he winked, "if you understand my meaning." He hustled her to the door. "We have your address; we will let you know at what hour he will call."

He gave her a little push towards the outer door and spun quickly to his assistant, "Claude, she likes Opera!" The younger man's eyes grew big as dinner plates. He started searching through papers on the desk and handed one to his boss, as the man opened the outer door and shoved her through it.

"Goodness" she protested as she lurched to a stop on the sidewalk, straightening her hat. Things had certainly changed since the last time she had been to a matchmaker.

* * *

Erik grumbled as the Persian once again tried to adjust his cravat. "Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

Exasperated, the swarthy man before him stopped and lifted his hands in an imitation of a prayer to his Islamic God. "You doom your evening before you even begin. She might be a very nice woman. Here you start with this attitude of yours, and she'll be miserable inside of ten minutes!" He pursed his lips. "At least give her a chance, Erik."

Erik flung a hand up in an impatient gesture. "Faugh! I could be working on the cantata." He stalked off muttering to himself.

The Persian followed, brushing the shoulders of the dark coat the man had put on, removed any specks, and handed him his cape and hat. Now he knew how parents must feel, dressing up one of the children to go courting.

"She's probably another one of those ninnies that cowers in the corner begging to return to the coach and leave." He did take a fraction of a second longer in front of the one mirror that he had allowed into the house by the lake. It was in the room where he had put Christine. Under his mask the thin lines of flesh that served as his lips worked silently. 'Please, God, at least let this be painless.'

Mirielle waited outside her building, dressed in the one good dress she had brought with her. The other women had pitched in, offering a beaded bag, and a hat with a small dark veil, and a nice broach. She watched the coaches travel by, waiting for the one that was to pick her up. She had glanced at the note several times for the two previous days:

_Madame,_

_You will be picked up at seven o'clock by my carriage._

_Be prepared for dinner._

There was no signature, so she didn't even have a hint of a name to put to this gentleman. The man at the Matchmaker did say he was 'eccentric'. What exactly did that mean? In manner, in dress, in the way he conversed, or was he just one of those odd men that defied description? She sighed; at least it was a start.

An impressive pair of white horses slowed in front of her, the large highly polished side of a carriage appeared, the driver getting down, doffing his cap and offering her a hand into the carriage. She took it a little shyly, where she was from there were no fine carriages of this sort. She felt like Cinderella and wondered if at midnight this would disappear leaving behind a pumpkin.

The inside was dimly lit, but she realized that there was someone else inside with her. She sat back and waited, because a gentleman should do the introductions first. "Good evening, Madame," came her answer in a smooth masculine voice. He was dressed all in black, a long cape folded carefully around him, white gloves and gold cufflinks winking at the base of his sleeves. A lighter colored cravat hugged his throat filling in the area above the vest, and a very large brimmed hat dipped over his face.

"Good evening, Monsieur," she relied. She placed her hands on her lap and laced the fingers together. Goodness! He was dressed so finely, she hoped he would not be embarrassed at her plain attire.

Erik had only managed to get a quick look at her as the coach had pulled up. She was not an uncomely woman; she stood expectantly in the dimming light of the autumn evening. Not too tall, or too short. She seemed to have all the right womanly curves, although corsets were renowned for making temporary improvements. Her hair was a dark color, carefully arranged under a charming little hat-he approved of the veil. "I had planned to take you to dinner at the _Chartier_ by the river, do you know of it?"

"I am very new to Paris, Monsieur. I haven't had a chance to go much of anywhere yet." In fact on her salary, the local coffee shop was as exotic as she could afford. He didn't seem to want to say anything else; she hoped she had not sounded rude or ignorant. "I am sure that if you recommend this establishment, that it will be fine."

She glanced out of the window and saw the buildings fall away to reveal a park along the bank of the Seine. The carriage pulled to a stop, and the door swung open. Once again the driver handed her down from the carriage. She heard her companion exiting the coach, and turned to wait.

He stepped up next to her, not too close; the hat still tipped down obscuring his face, and offered her his arm. She glanced down shyly and slid her hand around to grasp the arm, her other hand lifting her skirt enough to pass over the sidewalk unhindered as they made their way to the door of the restaurant.

Inside, one of the waiters nervously checked his watch and saw the coach pull up. "They're here," he shouted, scurrying back to the kitchen. The staff had already dimmed most of the house lights and hurried the previous diners out. This man always reserved the house for the evening, expecting the utmost of service and a discreet staff. The table was towards the back, the window drapes were closed. The staff formed a line in the kitchen as their maitre d' walked forward at a stately pace like a man ready to greet a king.

The doorman held the door upon, and she caught her breath as she was ushered into the most sumptuous room she had seen in her life. Beautiful brass and gold plated fixtures, elegant gas light sconces, a dark burgundy patterned wall paper, drapes hung with large golden tassels and a thick dark carpet. She was steered to a large table whose ivory expanse was set with gold tableware and crystal goblets at the two place settings.

The maitre d' pulled out her chair, seating her after she was released by her gentleman. She sat down carefully, putting her bag down on her lap. She glanced quickly at the crystal and gorgeous porcelain.

Inside the kitchen the staff held their breaths watching the clock; smelling salts in hand, expecting the first screams.

Out in the dinning room, her gentleman crossed to the opposite side of the table, waiting for the maitre d' to leave the room. In an amazing display of coordination and showmanship, her gentleman stepped back, swirling his cape, dropping it onto a nearby chair.

He paused, and then reached for his hat. Almost painfully slowly, the hat came off, descending to reveal a head the seemed to be covered with a sparse array of brown hair, and then revealing an expanse of white material, two openings for the eyes, and finally stopping in a line that revealed his mouth.


	2. Part Two: Dinner

_A/N: Greetings all and thanks for the reviews. Mominator has asked for some "prequel" story information, so I will be tacking it on the beginning of some of the chapters. Enjoy! _

_The year previous, the Persian's home:_

"Then Christine kissed me, for the first time, herself, here, on the forehead - don't look, daroga! - here, on the forehead ... on my forehead, mine - don't look, daroga! - and they went off together... Christine had stopped crying... I alone cried... Daroga, daroga, if Christine keeps her promise, she will come back soon! ..."

He wiped his face and replaced the mask. "The end is near for Erik. Here, here are my dearest possessions."

The Persian glanced at the small box. Inside were some papers, and the accessories of a woman: gloves, a shoe buckle, and two handkerchiefs. "Are these Mademoiselle Daaé's?"

Erik seemed to collect himself, unsteadily standing on his feet. Placing a hand on the Persian's shoulder he told him, "Yes. These are Christine's. You are to send them to her. She will return by the Rue Scribe gate and find me. She and her young man will slip the ring I gave her onto my finger and bury me."

"What?"

Erik nodded, his head coming to rest on his chest, his fingers gripping the other man's coat. "_Epoque_. You will receive word from me and send an article to _Epoque_. It will say 'Erik is dead'. She will know what to do." Erik's tall frame seemed to fold in upon itself.

"Darius!" Calling his manservant, the Persian attempted to catch the taller man as he fainted. "Help me get him to a bed. Then summon a doctor!"

An hour later, and with the aid of his manservant, he sat in his guest bedroom holding the enraged and feverish masked man down for the doctor. Tapping on Erik's back the doctor listened and put his stethoscope back in his bag. "I'll leave you a list of the medicines you'll need." The doctor stopped and shook his head, as Erik slid out of Darius' arms and off the far side of the bed.

Erik bolted upright, rigid with impotent rage. Shrugging his shirt back over his thin frame, he glared at the men in the room. "How dare you," he choked out.

"You're ill, man. You might have died. Look at you," the doctor prodded. "Emaciated, fevered, and that horrible smell."

"Smell?" Erik went totally still. Oh God. Had he smelled? Poor Christine, no wonder she was terrified by him. Alternately burning with fever and shivering when he went cold, he had been nearly delirious when he brought her to the house by the lake.

The Persian nodded. "You smell like death, Erik."

Death? Of course he smelled like death. He was dying.

"The quinine will take care of that along with plenty of liquids and better food." The doctor turned to the door, and went out into the hall.

The Persian glanced at Darius, who left following to show the doctor out. Erik still stood, quivering, his fists clenched. "Sit down, my friend. Let me get you something to drink and some pajamas."

"I don't want…"

"I know. But you should stay at least until we can get the medicine for you tomorrow."

"I don't want to live," came the soft reply from the head that was now bowed.

"Erik. You thought you were dying, and you kidnapped that girl, didn't you?" When he gave no answer, the Persian knew it was true. "You were mistaken, that's all. You let the illness wipe away your reason."

The voice floated somewhere around the shell of the man that stood by the bed. "Yes." He sat down boneless on the edge, his hands slack on his lap. "I thought I was dying….Christine would be my last chance. My last chance to be loved."

The Persian got a hold of the back of his jacket and tugged, sliding it off Erik's limp body. Placing it over the chair, he turned back and tugged at the top buttons on his collar and pulled the collar off, placing it on the table. "Allah is merciful. You may still get the chance."

The fever bright gold of Erik's eyes gazed at him from inside the black silk mask.

* * *

**Part Two: Dinner**

Erik watched the woman's face over the lowering brim of the hat. She sat with a slight tilt of her head. "I am sorry, Monsieur. Have you been injured?"

"No," his voice a little husky from his nervousness. "I was born this way, Madame," he said quietly. Thank you God. The last three had screamed; one of the two ran, and the others simply fainted. It took another minute before everyone in the establishment other than the lady started breathing normally.

Mirielle considered this for a moment, and glanced around the room. He seemed poised, ready to do something, perhaps he was just waiting on her. It was rather startling to see a man in a mask. "Are you going to sit down?" she asked. Maybe she had already put him off, done something untoward, or maybe it was the dress, it was a year out of style. How disappointing.

The golden eyes inside the mask widened a bit. But he finally dropped the hat onto the chair with the cape and moved to seat himself in the opposite chair.

From almost out of the air appeared a wine bucket with ice, a server who poured the couple a goblet of water, and a very arrogant looking man who started informing the couple of the house's specialty. Next to him waited the sommelier, his little cup suspended from his chain.

She sat staring blankly at the men as they listed the menu choices, they all sounded so wonderful! As they stopped, all of the men looking expectantly at her. Erik had the sinking feeling that perhaps she had not screamed because she was witless, she seemed a little overwhelmed by all the attention. "Does Madame have any preference?" he prompted.

She sat forward and put a hand on the table. "I'm sorry, Monsieur," she whispered "I'm not sure what to order."

He had had to sit forward a bit to hear her, noticing the warm rosy color her skin had adapted. Good heavens, she was actually blushing. "Would you like me order for you?" he asked.

"Yes, please," she replied.

"We'll start with the Scallops Gratinéed for the entree and Duck Breast Magret for the main. And white for the wine."

Goodness! He was going to feed her until she burst. Her dinner was usually cheese on toast before the coal fire, with some fruit, or a bit of old stew.

"Would you care for some wine, my dear?" He felt a little bolder.

"Oh," she breathed, "yes, Monsieur." She couldn't help but glance around again. "There doesn't seem to be anyone else here this evening."

"No, Madame," he lifted one hand in a careless gesture towards the mask, "I prefer it that way."

The entrée of scallops, shrimp, and mushrooms arrived hot in a shell shaped dish. It was delicious, but she noticed that he wasn't having any. "Are you not hungry?"

"I'll wait for the main course," he said. He didn't want to take the chance of getting food on the mask, at least not yet. He examined her as she ate; apparently she had proper table manners.

"This is very good," she said. "Are you from Pairs?"

"No," he replied. "I was born near Rouen. At an early age I began traveling."

"That must have been interesting."

He made a noise that might have been a laugh. "It was interesting later in my life. I finally came back to France, though. I settled in Paris about thirteen years ago."

"I lived in Muizon. My parents left Paris for the country, my father thought that being a farmer would be a better way to live. I met my husband there. We ran a small store."

Erik wondered if working in a shop had taught her the kind of response she had given him. Surely it was a matter of manners, she couldn't like the way he looked even masked. "Your information from the matchmaker said that you liked music," he prompted.

"Yes. Do you enjoy Opera?" Mirielle asked.

Erik finally warmed to the conversation. They began an exchange of what they appreciated about the various Operas that she had taken in. Finally he asked, "Would you care to take in an Opera? I have my own box."

Of course, the implication was that he wanted to see her again. "That would be very nice," Mirielle replied.

As the main course came, accompanied by the wine, he took his glass from the sommelier and tasted it. She tried to look casually around the table. She didn't want to gawk as he leaned his head back, the mask in the way. She wondered how bad it could be beneath it, and then realized with a start that the mask was almost flat; he must not have a nose!

"Do you still have family in Rouen?"

He went very still, in the dim light his eyes shown behind the mask. "I never saw my father. My mother I remember. She used to throw my mask at me and flee from the room."

His brutal honesty touched something inside her. What could she say? 'I'm sorry' would sound so trite. "You must have had a very difficult life," she said quietly.

"Difficult," he repeated, in a strong voice. "My life is still difficult." At least she didn't start giving him a rush of pity filled words. He was an artist in words, in stone, in music that would make angels weep. He was tired of the idea of pity. He needed more. "Thank you," he said.

"For what, Monsieur?"

"For not patronizing me with useless words, Madame."

They ate quietly for the rest of the meal. Erik enjoyed the quiet with her, together but separate. No more fumbling attempts at conversation. Several times the staff drifted through, appearing at the exact moment a glass needed to be refilled or a plate whisked away. Finally they came to the end of the meal, the table cleared and cups of coffee set before them each with a side plate with two chocolate truffles. The maitre d' appeared asking if they would care for a dessert, but she said no, and complimented the staff.

Erik nodded in agreement, "Well done."

The maitre d' left a small tray on the table for his signature. He left a generous tip, feeling in a lot better mood than his previous dinning experiences here. As he donned the cape once again, the staff came out and all wished the couple a pleasant evening.

Her gentleman offered her his arm again, which she took, but stopped short of the door, "I haven't even asked you your name, Monsieur," she said.

He turned to her in the dim light, his eyes a startling gold color that seemed to glow. "Erik," he said, "please call me Erik."

"My name is Mirielle."

"Mirielle," he repeated as if testing the taste of it on his tongue. "That is a lovely name."

She felt herself blushing again, good heavens it was like being a teenager with her first suitor! It had to be the way his voice sounded; strong, rich, and masculine.

"Would you care for a walk by the river?" he asked.

"Yes, it's nice at night isn't it?"

As they reached the other side of the street and stopped by the stone railing that overlooked the river, he turned not to the lights of Paris, but to her profile. She gazed with a small smile on her face. "Yes," he agreed, "it is a nice night."

They chatted quietly, Erik pointing out the sights across the river, and weaving little stories of the local history for her. He was getting quite comfortable with the feel of her hand on his arm. Sadly he knew that this evening must come to an end, he would drop her off, and probably never see her again.


	3. Paris Interlude

_Paris: Six months previous_

A layer of smoke drifted through the multicolored lights of the lanterns. Nadir Khan sat on the divan, drawing in a breath of the sweetened tobacco from the hookah. Laying the tip of the hose on the table, Erik intercepted his movement with the traditional tap of his hand. Taking up the hose, he slid the tip between his teeth and inhaled.

Nadir blinked sleepily. "Did you enjoy your meal?"

"Mmmhmm." Another puff of the smoke escaped between Erik's thin lips. "They did an excellent job of the Lamb."

Nadir agreed. "I miss the _Mensif _at the palace. The saffron sauce was sinful."

Erik glanced from their dimly lit table. Across the restaurant, Muslim men talked animatedly over their food. "I'm glad you found this place, Daroga."

"Tired of cooking for yourself?"

"Bored."

Nadir felt his stomach plummet. "Erik. You aren't going to get up to your old tricks are you?"

With a sigh his companion answered. "No. Just wishing for a new distraction." He laid down the hose. "Perhaps it's because it's winter. I just am tired of looking at the same walls every day."

"Yearning for a little conversation?

"Intelligent conversation," Erik qualified.

Nadir let a stream of the smoke pass his lips. Glancing at their fellow dinners, he hoped Erik wouldn't strangle him in public. "What about a woman?"

The golden eyes disappeared. Nadir hugged the end of the hose close to his body, his hand level with his neck. He stuck the tip of the hose into his mouth and sucked, a bubble arose in the pipe, bursting noisily.

Erik's shoulders appeared to be shaking. At any moment, the lasso would hiss through the air, as deadly as a cobra. "Erik?"

He folded his slender hands across his middle. A noise escaped his tight lips.

Nadir blinked. "Are you laughing?" He slapped the tip of the pipe down on the table.

Erik's elegant fingers crawled across the surface, pale spiders walking along the hose.

"Nadir. You are persistently…" A giggle escaped him. He added, "Dim…"

"_Maa leesh_."

Erik's laughter died slowly. "What do you mean, 'never mind'? It isn't like you to give up so easily, Daroga."

"You are giving up on yourself, magician."

"Am not. There was never enough of me to attract a woman to."

"But there is," Nadir persisted. "You are an artist…"

"Who excels are being the ugliest creature alive," Erik reminded him.

The Persian considered the man. "You answer an ad, and I'll drink Cognac."

Erik turned in alarm. "Alcohol is not acceptable for Muslims, Nadir. You'd sin for me?"

"If it would keep you from being bored, I'd offer you my daughter."

"You don't have a daughter," Erik pointed out dryly.

"No, and you never will either if you don't get up and go find a woman!"

Erik shook his head vehemently. "No daughters. No sons. A woman…" his voice dropped. "Mebmmm."

"What?"

"Memmbmm."

"What?"

"Maybe."

"Yes?"

"But there is one condition. She must appreciate Opera."

"But of course." The Persian struggled to keep his voice light while under the edge of his jacket he ran fingers over his worry beads, sending prayers skyward.

"No singers."

"Mmhm, I could see that. No actresses either, I'd think. They want attention all the time."

"Precicely. I'm not looking for a difficult woman."

Nadir's lips twitched. He'd gotten Erik this far, he wasn't about to explain to the man that all women were difficult.


	4. Part Three: A Parting

**Part Three: A Parting**

Erik heard the clock chime across the water. "I should take you home now," he said.

"Yes, I have to be up for work tomorrow," she began, "but I have so enjoyed this evening. Thank you, Erik."

The carriage appeared as if by magic. The driver started to get down, but her gentleman raised a hand to forestall him. He swept open the door for her and offered her his hand. She grasped the gloved hand and carefully stepped into the darkness. He joined her, arranging his cape on the seat. They rode in the rocking carriage, accompanied by the clop of the horse's hooves on the cobblestones, and the jingle of their harnesses.

Pulling up to her building, she felt the carriage rock as the driver got down and opened the door. She slid forward on the seat preparing to get out, when his hand stopped her. "I will not be getting out with you," he said, offering his hand to her. She gave hers to him, and somehow under his hat, he brought it to where his lips must be. She could feel his warm breath through her glove. "Thank you, Mirielle for a wonderful evening."

She smiled, although she couldn't tell in the dark if he could see it. "Thank you, Monsieur. Dinner was lovely." She exited the coach and turned to watch it pull away from the sidewalk.

* * *

Tossing the hat onto the sideboard, and draping the cape over a chair, he moved through the room. The cravat dropped here, cufflinks clinking in a dish on the dresser, his watch chain winding into a pile of links next to them. He removed the stiff collar from his shirt, top buttons undone; he moved to his kitchen and retrieved a glass. A bit of digestif for the digestion, and he would retire.

He sat in his large chair by the fireplace and propped his feet on a stool. After a sip, he laughed to himself. Nadir wouldn't stop badgering him until he would tell him everything tomorrow. Maybe he should just invite him to hide behind a plant in the restaurant next time.

He raised his glass, "To Mirielle Montalais, a charming companion with a charming blush."

* * *

Mirielle stopped at the shops on the way home. Her pay would cover the pork she asked from the butcher, and some potatoes. Between the roommates, they worked out a schedule to pick up groceries and share a dinner. Her meager earnings would hardly provide a good lunch most days, so she had volunteered to scrub the stairwell in her building to cover part of her rent.

Arriving home, she found a note tucked in the edge of her mailbox. Shifting her bag to one side, she retrieved the paper and unfolded it. In a hasty scrawl, the matchmaker had requested she stop by. She took her supplies up the stairs, and then left for the walk to the matchmaker's.

"He has sent us a note," Monsieur Cigar Smoker told her. "He wishes to take you to the Opera! Isn't that wonderful? You have certainly impressed him Madame Marchand."

"Montalais," she retorted. "Madame Montalais." Goodness, he and his fawning assistant acted like dogs sniffing a trail of franc notes. If her gentleman was going to reward them their finder's fee, they could at least get her name correct! She opened this note and read:

_My Dear,_

_I would like the honor of your company once again on the_

_evening of the 22nd, for the opening of "Carmen" at the Garnier._

_Please be ready for my carriage by six-thirty. You will be seated_

_by the attendant in Box Five where I shall be joining you._

_Erik_

She glanced up at the calendar on the blackboard. The night he requested was a Saturday, only a week away. Her excitement at being invited to the opening wilted as she realized that she would not have enough time to secure a dress, let alone have enough money laid aside to get one.

She folded the note and started to place it in her bag, when M. Cigar Smoker stopped her, "He wishes a return reply, Madame."

She pursed her lips in thought and nodded. "May I have a pen?"

He snatched up a paper from a pile on the desk, "I'll write it for you, you are going to accept…" he ask in a flourish of the pen.

"No, Monsieur. I don't have a dress for an evening such as that."

"Can't you just buy one? Say, the second hand shop perhaps?"

She couldn't even afford it if it were a fourth or fifth hand shop. "A dress for the Opera would cost me nearly six months rent," she replied shaking her head.

He looked disappointed, but agreed, "I understand Madame. We shall let him know shall we? It may be embarrassing for you, but I think he would appreciate the truth."

She pursed he lips and nodded 'yes'. He had given her such a nice evening; she didn't want to seem as if she were rebuffing him. It was better to just let him know her circumstances.

Maybe following the whim of going to the Matchmaker had been a mistake. She didn't have proper dresses, and Paris was a center for fashion. She didn't want to embarrass her gentleman by going to their evenings in the same dress! She quietly excused herself and trudged home; her small dingy apartment feeling all the more closed in. Her life now delineated by the two small rooms and the hall to the shared bath.

The next day when she returned home there was another note tucked in her post box. This one was from her Monsieur:

_My Dearest,_

_Thank you for your candor. I do so wish for you to join_

_me at the Opera! I think you will enjoy it._

_Please return to the Matchmaker's office. There will be_

_another envelope waiting for you._

_My warmest regards,_

_Erik_

Her brows knit, return to the office? She glanced up the street; it looked to still be early enough for the office to be open. Squaring her shoulders, she swung open the door and began the journey up the street again.

"Madame Martin?" Fawning Assistant prompted.

"Montalais, Madame Montalais," she corrected. Goodness! Neither man seemed capable of remembering her well enough to capture her name. Ah well, she had always been a bit of a wall flower. 'Our Lady of the Invisible', she thought.

"Sorry," he replied. "This is for you, Madame." He offered another envelope to her.

Taking it she noticed how the other occupants of the office all were watching her, craning their necks to see what was written on the note. Since this was none of their business, she nodded to the young man and went outside. Opening the envelope she saw and address and a name on it along with a suggested time. Glancing at her watch again, she had twenty minutes to make it to the shop.

Arriving, she saw a closed sign on the door, but tapped lightly on it anyway. An elderly lady appeared and pointed towards the sign. She held up the note for the woman to see. The older woman glanced between the note and her face several times, and then opened the door.

"Come in, Madame." She indicated the back of the store with a sweep of her arm, "Come in and let's get started."

Confused, she asked, "Started on what?"

"Your dress my dear," the woman said with a small smile. "Your gentleman has already stipulated that the dress must be done for Saturday evening."

Glancing in a mirror they past, Mirielle was horrified to see the surprised 'O' her mouth had formed. "Do you mean that he has bought a dress for me?"

The older woman tittered, "No, my dear, we are going to make you one for the evening." She stepped back and looked Mirielle up and down. " Oh yes, he is correct, I think that a dark blue silk or a cut velvet in blue would look very nice with your eyes."

Mirielle blinked. "My eyes?"

"Yes, Monsieur said something to compliment your eyes." She started off down an aisle. "I have a lovely cut velvet with some jet beads that would compliment both your eyes and your hair color." A door at the back opened admitting another woman. Although younger, the family resemblance told Mirielle that this must be a daughter. "This is the lady we received the note about," the older woman began.

The daughter looked at Mirielle as if she had popped out of a bottle. Recovering, she introduced herself, "I'm Marie-Therese and this is my Mama, Camille Ouvard." She helped her mother retrieve a bolt of velvet. Holding it close to Mirielle, they agreed "Yes, he was right."

Mirielle shed her coat and hat. Standing arms akimbo while they took measurements, she asked, "Have you done work for this gentleman before?"

The two woman looked at each other. "It was over a year ago. He bought a dress off the rack, though. I guess it didn't work out, because we haven't heard from him in a while."

"Do you know much about him?" she asked.

Again, the look between them. The younger woman took the bolt and began flipping it over, pulling free the yards of fabric on her cutting table. Camille sat cutting a paper pattern. "Are you from Paris?"

"No."

"Well, I must start at the beginning of the tale," she said.


	5. Paris Interlude II

Interlude Three: _Paris three months previous_

Jean pushed open the large door. Stopping at the bottom of the Grand Escalier, he craned his neck to catch sight of the cleaning women. "Madame Riverin?"

She was tall and slender like the mop handle she stood with. "Morning, Jean." Waving a hand she indicated which set of stairs for the boy to climb.

He turned and ducked under the stairs that led downward. On a pedestal that held a marble bust, he tucked a copy of the newspaper behind the carved head. Pocketing the coins that lay on the pedestal, he darted back around the corner and started the climb up the stairs to deliver the Paris' morning paper to the Manager's secretary.

A door opened on the lower floor, a pale hand slid the paper noiselessly from behind the statue and disappeared once again behind the door.

Humming to himself, Erik wandered through the corridor to Box Five. This time of the day, all the cleaning women were beginning the task of cleaning the acre of marble steps in the front of the building. Sitting, he propped his foot on the footstool and flipped open the paper. The door whispered open.

"You're getting quieter, daroga. I might have missed your approach if you hadn't gotten something wedged in the sole of your shoe."

"What?" The Persian sat down and lifted each foot in turn. Indeed, one had a small stone protruding minutely from the bottom. He took off the shoe and held it up. "I never heard it."

The dark mask turned to him, following the man as he sat. If Erik had eyebrows they would have been lifted under its surface. "You also brushed the wall as you came into the corridor, Nadir."

"I did?"

The golden eyes disappeared briefly. "No, I'm making this up to keep the conversation lively. Why are you here this morning?"

"I though you might like to go to the _Alborz_ again. They've added ice cream with saffron and rose water to the menu. And," he gestured grandly, "a belly dancer."

Erik dropped the paper and looked at his long time acquaintance cum adversary. "I have to eat ice cream slowly. How long does she dance?"

Nadir chuckled. "Long enough to melt that dessert."

"Is that a double-entendre?"

"I am not certain, but she is very nimble."

"I mean," Erik said slowly, "is that a sexually ambiguous statement?"

The Persian blinked. "No, she's a woman. She's not one of those fellows who dress up like one if that is what you are implying."

"Well, thank God for that," Erik replied, giving up on the subject before it got any stranger.

Nadir took a section of the paper that Erik offered. "Any ads that prickle your fancy?"

"Tickle, daroga. The phrase is 'tickle your fancy'. And yes, I think I've found one."

Nadir patted down his jacket, muttering. "Let me find my glasses."

Erik held up an open page. "Just there."

The Persian blinked. "Erik," he admonished. "That's a place for courtesans."

"No, not that column! The next one over."

"Ah, sorry my friend. Laval Agency, eh? Sounds quite professional. Are you prepared to give it a try?"

For once, Erik's self confidence slipped. "I think so."

"Hmmph. Go see that belly dancer and you will be."

"What about you, Daroga? Are you ever going to find another wife?"

"I eat my ice cream cold," he replied.

There was no way on earth Erik was even going to try to interpret that comment.


	6. Part Four: Box Five

**A/N: Greetings all, and take your seats. Madame Giry will bring you a program. **

**Part Four: Box Five**

Mirielle arrived by cab at the Opera. Working her way through the milling crowd at the front, she entered the sumptuous hallway before the Grand Escalier. Feeling she must look like a lost country peasant, she closed her gaping mouth and followed the other patrons up the stairs.

On the landing were gentlemen dressed as footmen, escorting couples out into the audience seating. Poised, and not knowing where to turn, she glanced around hopeful that someone would come to retrieve her. She faintly heard her name, and turned. The only thing behind her was a seven foot nude statue placed at the top of the stair balustrade. She glanced around again; maybe it had been from another direction.

The voice came again, a faint lilting tone. She glanced around quickly, and then stepped towards the statue. "Follow the left corridor," the voice said. Mirielle once again glanced to see if anyone else had noticed, then turned on her heel and walked unhurriedly down the left branch of the hallway.

Passing people, she neared a door, and out came a woman. "Madame Montalais?"

"Yes, I am Madame Montalais," she replied. The two women moved to circle each other. Madame Giry looked at her with undisguised curiosity, while Mirielle wondered what the woman found so fascinating.

The woman stopped. "I am your box attendant, Madame Giry," she said in self important tones. "Please follow me; your gentleman has instructed that you be seated." She held open the door for Mirielle, who stepped into the curving hallway. As they proceeded she noticed the doors to the boxes. Finally, at the one closest to the stage, the Giry woman stopped and opened the door for her.

She stepped into a dark area; in front of her were two strategically placed chairs. Before one was a little footstool, she wondered what it was for. "He will join you during Act One," Madame Giry told her, offering her a program for the Opera.

Mirielle sat, carefully re-arranging her skirt. It was not always comfortable to sit with a bustle. Fortunately for her, the seamstresses had showed her how to arrange the bustle pad so the dress would not puff backwards as she sat. She hated sitting forward with the pad at her hips. Why couldn't women's fashions be more accommodating?

As the house filled, the lights finally came down and the curtains rolled back. As the music began and the gaslights went down, Mirielle was transported through time to Spain, with a gypsy woman named Carmen.

During a confrontation between the characters, she was aware suddenly that she was not alone. She looked over, and sitting next to her was her gentleman. Smiling in the darkness, she reached out a hand, which he took and placed on his arm. She could make out the masked head nodding toward her. Fingers entwined, she turned her attention back to the stage.

Erik listened to the music, a part of him registering the story unfolding before him. He felt his fingers move occasionally, stroking one of hers. Her grip would change subtly according to the story on stage; stronger when Carmen was in danger, lighter as the Acts went by. At one point she had shifted a little and placed her other hand on his arm.

Mirielle was only vaguely aware of her hand in his. His arm next to hers emitted warmth that permeated his clothing. She did notice how unusually thin, and sinuous his arm and hand felt.

As the story came to the intermission, the house lights came up. As she watched, a curtain appeared from the edge of the box, and closed across the front. "Where did that come from?"

Erik considered her for a moment. "Remember the restaurant?" He lifted a hand towards the curtain. "It is the same here. I do not allow people to see me," he replied in a mellifluous tone. He saw her glance at their hands. "I am sorry, Madame. I am being forward." He slid his fingers away from hers, self conscious suddenly. She was such a charming and open woman; he had forgotten she was an innocent in his world.

Forward? The man had paid nearly four hundred francs for her dress to be ready for the evening. She searched the dark silken mask in the dim light, just catching a hint of the honey colored irises he possessed. He looked away. "Monsieur..." she began.

"Erik." He reminded her gently.

"Erik." She began again, "At my age, an act of forwardness is not such a bad thing."

He tsked behind the mask, shaking his head. "You are a woman full of the joy of life, Madame. I am an ill mannered lout to take such liberties with you. You deserve more than my stumbling attempts at familiarity."

She shook her head 'no'. "I went to a matchmaker for a reason. I am hoping for that familiarity as you call it. I don't want to spend the rest of my life a lonely woman, recounting stories to grandchildren. I want to spend it with a man."

The golden eyes gazed at her sadly. "I am sorry, Madame," he said softly, "I am a poor substitute for a man."

The curtain began to pull back catching her eye, when she turned back the chair was empty. She stared at the empty seat a moment before her brain registered that he had actually seemed to vanish. She felt a wave of crushing sadness close over her. She had hoped for another wonderful evening, and now she sat alone.

The house lights down, the music began to play. Listening half-heartedly, she felt more miserable by the second. She had finally met someone, and managed to drive him off in a matter of only two evenings together.

She blinked rapidly in the darkness, and sniffed. Goodness! She was such a silly woman! What could she offer a man like that? She slumped in her chair and rubbed her forehead tiredly. She would have to leave. She'd drop the dress off tomorrow; maybe the ladies could consign it and get him some of his money back. She would go into the office and let Monsieur Cigar Smoker know she would not be available anymore.

Leaving the building to wait for a cab, she could not bring herself to glance behind. It was all a fairy tale anyway, the lights, the music. She wasn't a performer, a singer, or a ballerina, none of those artistic types that would interest the Opera Ghost. She was just a drab little sparrow in a world of peacocks.

Erik walked down the length of the backstage corridor. At this point in the performance, the performers scurried at either end, not paying any attention to the shadow wavering in the hallway.

Reaching upward, he brushed back scant strands of his hair as they fell forward over his mask. Damn it all, he felt a craven child sneaking away while she sat in the box. Things were moving too fast for him. Spending a life alone, enviously eyeing the interplay between men and women, how could he hope to mimic those people?

The poor woman didn't even know what he was; a despondent spirit hoping to find a scrap of flesh to wrap himself in. He took the stairs two at a time as he rushed towards the rooftop. It was far too heated in the building this evening, or perhaps it was his own embarrassment that fired his blood? "You are such a ninny," his voice a low growl. "What did you think would happen?"

He paced towards the front of the building, looking down over the rooftops that populated the Paris night. Small pools of illumination from the lights inside of houses bespoke of men and women sitting quietly in the night. Squatting down, he twisted his fingers together; strong, skeletal digits that could carve beauty out of the stone and coax heartbreaking music from a violin. But never, never in his life, had they coaxed a sigh from a woman.

"You are utterly…," he broke off his tirade as he glimpsed Mirielle below. He lifted a hand, but dropped it. He couldn't stop her from here, and if he did what would he say? _Sorry, I've lived under the ground so long I lost my manners. Sorry I'm so ugly my own mother didn't want me. Sorry, I think you're a wonderful woman and that scares me more than anything I've ever encountered?_

As she walked, she didn't even glance back. But wait, she wasn't glancing at anything. Erik scanned the surrounding street. Even with the number of conveyances moving passed the building; she might not get a cab. If he was quick…

Going through the door to the roof, he moved swiftly along a beam under the rafters. Below him one of the scenes was being lifted while another would slide down behind it. Dodging the pulleys and moving ropes, he maneuvered himself along the gamut of mechanisms until he stepped to a lower rafter. Sliding along a rope to a ledge, he jumped to land on a rail and moved catlike along its edge until he reached a door. Folding his tall frame, he quickly cleared the short opening and ran along another length of scaffolding, dodging in and out of the vision of the men who worked the ropes.

Grabbing the end of a rope in his fist, he looped the lower section around his heel and eased himself down the single story drop to reach the backstage. Once again, performing the bizarre turns and dodges he had become accustomed to in hiding in the shadows, he reached the trap door.

Down two levels, out through another small door, and through the tunnel leading to the Rue Scribe, he dashed towards the gate that closed at the mouth of the tunnel. Peering through, he saw she waited at the curb. Taking out one of the keys he had made that fit the gates, he darted out onto the pavement in time to snare her by the arm and pull her into the shadows as a cab rounded the corner heading her way.


	7. Part Five: Box Five Reprise

**A/N: Thanks to my reviewers! **

**Part Five: Box Five Reprise**

Startled, she flinched, but had no chance of calling out because a gloved hand had covered her mouth. The other hand had found its way around her waist and she was lifted bodily and carried back into the shadowy edge of the pavement near the building's wall.

"Mirielle," Erik said quietly, "it is Erik." Her body went from stiff as a plank to a soft, melting weight against him. Easing his hand away and looking over her shoulder, he saw her rapidly blinking eyes.

"You nearly made me leap out of my shoes!" She freed one hand, and fanned it in front of her face. "Goodness."

He held on to her, unsure if he should let her go. At least that is what you are telling yourself, he thought. She was shorter than Christine, and thicker, and she smelled of something that made him want to reach out and pluck it to bring it to his lips. Oh, my. The Paris evening seemed to be heating up. "Ah..are you all right now?"

She let out a sigh, "I think so." Looking down, she cleared her throat. "I thought," she said staring at the toe of his shoe, "that I might have made you angry, Monsi…Erik." She glanced up swiftly, getting as far as his chin before she dropped her eyes.

"No, I'm not angry." He relaxed his arms, one hand trailed down hers to grasp her hand. "I'm," he stopped in mid thought. "I'm terrible at this," he admitted.

She glanced again, a little higher. Those amazing honey colored eyes appeared, then went away. She let slip the little bubble of laughter than percolated in her stomach. "Aren't we both?" The eyes appeared again. "I mean this is so awkward," she added. He must have found that amusing, for the eyes became tilted. She spoke impulsively, "It's so strange to not know the expression on your face."

The eyes changed again, taking on a flat stare that lost the golden luster they had held. "I've done it again haven't I," she rushed on giving his thin fingers a squeeze, "I'm sorry." She felt the rising tension in his body as he stepped away from her.

"I'll secure a cab for you." His voice was as flat and hard as a slab of granite.

"There it is," she blurted. There was a slight narrowing of the eyes inside the mask. "I've found it-it's in your voice."

Erik watched her face. "Your expression, Erik. It's in your voice." She stood with a slight smile, as if her simple declaration had set the world to rights again. Despite the sudden rise of his temper, he was loathe to let her go. She was his first successful attempt at a normal evening with a woman, and Nadir would howl down the walls of the Opera if he sent her away.

Mirielle wished she had brought a warmer wrap than the lacy black shawl around her shoulders. Standing here in the shadowy edge of the building she shivered slightly. A change in the air around her pushed the ringlets of her hair over the nape of her neck. She let go of his hand, and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders.

Erik saw her shiver, "I am sorry, my dear. Would you like to go back in the building," he paused slightly, "or would you prefer to leave?"

"It's a little cool out here," she answered. "I think we've missed the performance."

They stood together quietly while the steady clop of hooves from the cabs passed by. Erik took a step towards the curb. People were coming from the Opera. He grasped her hand again. "Come with me, Mirielle."

She reached down to lift the hem of her skirt as he turned not towards the street, but towards what looked like a hole in the darkness. A shiver went up her arms leaving goose flesh; her hand tightened its grip on his.

Leaving the shadows, her eyes struggled to adjust to the deeper dark of the building. The sound of the rustle of her dress and the slight sound of her own breathing were the only stimulus she could pick out of the inky space around her. Several times she half heartedly tugged on his hand as it pulled her along, feeling the responding movement as his fingers reassured her that he was still there. As he walked, he made no sound.

"Erik." She pulled to a stop.

"Yes, my dear?" His voice circled around her. She had stopped, and stood glancing about her. "There's nothing to fear, Mirielle. I'll guide you through the darkness." He drew her along a walkway until it joined the larger chamber of the cellar.

She blinked in the darkness. Was that a light ahead? Something low, and long. It looked like light under the edge of a door. He had stopped; a halo of light appeared to rim his figure. One arm pushed aside a small door that squeaked a greeting. Bending downward, he went through the opening, and turned to aid her. She stood up in a room full of props.

"This is the third cellar below the stage." He released her hand and picked up a small lantern which he quickly lit. The smell of things stored in darkness filled the room. A gray lace of cobwebs clung to the edges of chariots, and a boat, and what looked like a figure in Roman clothing. Stencils on the sides proclaimed the contents of crates stacked around them. Weaving a path through the room, he paused before a door. Opening the door, he guided her up to the next cellar.

"Another cellar? What's in it?"

"This is the second cellar. Most of the extra statuary and furniture is stored here." Erik chatted on quietly. He'd been here so long he had never given a thought to the idea of having to explain his world to someone else. Mirielle only spoke twice, pointing out pieces and asking what performance they had been part of. He slowed their progress and pointed out pieces that she would recognize.

Coming to another set of stairs, he pulled her aside. "Be quiet, my dear." She heard the tap of footsteps on the stairs as he shut down the lantern and pulled her into his arms. Light appeared above their heads, and she could make out the boots of the man coming down the stairs. She leaned against him, her ear listening to the rhythmic heartbeat under his coat. His breath wove warm fingers through her hair.

After the intruder dropped off the box he carried, he turned and went back up the steps. She continued to wait in the quiet, picturing the booted feet pacing away from the opening above them.

"We'll take a little detour."

He pulled her through the darkness once again. She was actually starting to feel the proximity of objects around her when she heard the metal protest of hinges again. His hands moved to her shoulders and helped her step into something. The sound of the hinges again, and then they were moving upward.

The door swung open to the box they had shared. She narrowed her eyes against the light from the stage area as she stepped around the door he held open. Motioning her to her chair, he made a sweeping gesture, and the curtain appeared around them again. She watched him close the opening to the pillar which sat in the wall. "Is that an elevator?"

"Of a sort, yes. It's a simple system of pulleys and a few borrowed weights." He'd never brought anyone else up in it. Not even Christine. He'd never explained any of his devices to a living soul. The dead could bear witness to his elaborate constructs, if voices could be heard from the other side.

"They have an elevator at the mill, but it's for the materials."

He really should send her home. He'd brought her here and then abandoned her. In his flight, he'd feared she would leave and stopped her. No matter what tact he took, he seemed to reverse his decision.

Mirielle felt the quiet descend upon them again. "What did you think of Carmen? Usually the mezzo-soprano isn't the main character."

"I find the choice suitable for the role. Although she could not attain the full soprano range, her voice is richer, matching the sensuality of Carmen's character. I've read that another director had the role done in full soprano, I think it would loose that dark, deeper feeling that she has."

She agreed as he took the chair next to hers, "The performance wasn't very well received as I recall. Perhaps the audience felt as you do."

"I can't say that is the reason. The entire body of the work has been pushed and prodded since the initial performance. I'm afraid it's just not the right time for it."

"How so?" she asked, intrigued.

"Well, you have Bizet who has a body of work that is impressive, and you have Halévy and Meilhac doing the libretto."

"Yes, they also worked on Offenbach and Massenet's operas."

"Now, with that talent behind the opera, and backing to have it performed, why is it being considered a flop? There's talk that it is too political. Critics don't always understand," Erik groused.

They continued talking for some time before Erik thought to check his watch. When he did he nearly dropped it. "It's three o'clock in the morning."

Mirielle stretched her feet out in front of her under the voluminous skirt of her dress. "Is that why my eyes feel so dry?"

"Madame, I must apologize," Erik got to his feet. "I had not thought it so late." He felt an utter fool; she'd never be able to find a cab at this time of the morning.

She smiled. "Well, if I sit here long enough, I can see the whole performance in, " she paused, ticking off numbers in her head, "around sixteen hours."

At least she didn't seem angry. "I could get one of the Opera's horses and take you back."

"There are horses here?"

Under the mask he smiled, "Of course, my dear. Come with me."

* * *

Mirielle watched him saddle the large white horse, talking to the great beast as he cinched the girth tight. "César and I have been friends for a while, haven't we boy?" He gave the horse a rub along its arched neck.

He turned and led her closer to the horse, grasping her waist and lifting her up into the saddle. Pushing aside the hem of her dress, he set foot in the stirrup and mounted behind her. Reaching around her, he gathered up the reins and turned the horse towards the waiting door.

Outside the moon's crescent hung like a lopsided smile over the city. "The city looks so lovely under the stars," she sighed.

"Everything's beautiful in the dark."

She caught the hint of sarcasm in his voice. "How so?"

"In the daylight you can see the filth and the squalor of the city. At night, all of that is hidden."

She gave a short laugh. "You could say the same for people. A woman in the dark doesn't show her age."

He made a strangled noise. "Madame, are you insinuating you are old?"

"Yes, I am. And I'm very proud of it, too. I've survived life, and I think I have earned every one of my wrinkles." She asked, "Did you like my dress?"

"Yes, Mirielle. It is lovely." She looked wonderful in the dark cut velvet. The dropped shoulders revealed enough of the soft mounds of her breasts to make his heart race faster when he'd seen her in the box. Christine had never filled out a dress like that. _Quite the romantic aren't you_, _compliment her not the dress_. "You are lovely," he added.

She relaxed back against him, "Thank you, Erik."

He'd made a right mess of the entire evening. Coming to the front of her building, he dismounted and then helped her down. She patted the horse's neck and then turned in the moonlight to smile at him.

"Good night, Erik." She reached up and with surprising strength pulled his head down by grabbing his cravat.

Erik closed his eyes, feeling the heat of her lips against the mask. His hands fluttered awkwardly, reaching, and then pulling away as he was released to straighten bolt upright from her. He swallowed thickly, "Good night, Mirielle."

She looked up into the holes in the mask and into the smoldering golden gaze.


	8. Only A Woman

**Part Six: Only A Woman**

The thick eyelashes brushed his ear. Warm breath streamed down his neck. "I'd be flattered if I were a mare," Erik muttered.

César's brown eyes peered back into the mask. With a toss of his head, he turned away as if to chastise Erik. Awaiting his rider, he flicked his tale.

"Let's go home." She would have seen the smile in his eyes if she had waited. But she hadn't, she'd turned and left him standing on her stoop.

* * *

"Well."

"Well…what?" Erik retorted.

Nadir sat with his arms crossed over his chest, "How was the opera?"

"It was adequate. I should have insisted they cast Poinette La Farge for the role of Michaela. Francoise just doesn't appear to be the kind of woman who conveys the piety needed for the solo." He lowered his voice, "Mutton dressed as lamb, you know."

The staccato tap of the Persian's foot escalated as he endured Erik's attempt at humor. "Yes, but how was _your_ evening?"

"Madame Montalais enjoyed the performance," what she actually saw of it. Should he mention the cellars?

"Well," his swarthy companion purred, "when do I get to make the acquaintance of the lady?"

With a negligent gesture Erik hedged the question. "Sometime when she is here I suppose."

Nadir's dark eyes narrowed. "Have you approached her for another evening?"

"No. I haven't." The man could prod as gently as he wished. It would be his decision whether to call on the widow again or not.

Tilting his head back to examine Erik, his dark eyes turned sharp as a hawk's. "What is wrong, Erik?"

"Nothing is wrong. She is a charming woman, an adequate conversationalist and a satisfactory if not modest Opera aficionado."

"I see," came the soft reply.

"Daroga," Erik aped his visitor's pose, "what do you mean 'I see'?"

"She isn't pleasant."

Nearly choking on the word, Erik retorted, "Pleasant? Of course she's pleasant. I wouldn't endure the creature's company if she wasn't pleasant."

With a small shrug his companion replied, "Well, you tried. Perhaps fortune will favor you next time."

"There needn't be another attempt, her company will suffice," came the gruff reply.

The Persian's frank expression made Erik feel like a worm attempting to wriggle away from a bird. "She isn't my Angel." He felt a cad thinking it, and it tasted even more repugnant as he said it.

"No, she isn't. An angel wouldn't press your shirts or burn your toast. An angel wouldn't interrupt your compositions to have you hang a picture or choose a color for curtains. An angel wouldn't need to warm her cold feet next to yours in bed. An angel wouldn't ask you if she was looking too plump in her favorite frock." Nadir got to his feet. "An angel wouldn't sicken and die." His dark eyes still held the haunted look of a man who had held his dying wife. "I'm sorry she's only a woman Erik." He put on his hat, leaving the solitary figure. For a man with a tripping acquaintance with the French language, Nadir had said just enough to prick his conscience.

She wasn't Christine. She never would be. And the Christine who had taken his ring and left him was already gone. A wife and mother, she would never be his returning angel. The Christine he loved would never age, never argue, never pout or scold. She'd never sit in the box during the opera, or be there in his home while he played his music. She was an angel. She was never a woman.

* * *

The most anticipated day of the workweek was also her longest. Resting a hand on her hip, Mirielle swung her lunch pail to and fro as she listened to the women in front of her chat. Late to enter the line to the paymasters window, she would be late to the shops as well.

When she saw the limp fish at the stalls, she wandered to the pork butcher's instead. The owner of the shop was a large man who cut pieces according to his customer's wishes, but managed to keep his apron relatively clean during his work. His dark hair parted down the middle and oiled back, he greeted her with a benign smile. "What shall it be today, Madame?"

"I'd like four chops, please. Thick sliced I think."

"Only four?"

"Yes. One of my room mates will be dinning out." Lucky woman. She'd met the man who might take her away from the dreary life they all endured.

"I see," he responded. Snatching up the end of the paper off the roll, he wrapped the chops and taped the package. He laid them on the top of the display case as he took the franc note from her hand. Returning with change, he thanked her, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Madame…?"

Surprise, she glanced at his eyes which seemed to not be able to look into hers. "Montalais." She put her change into her pocket.

"I put an extra chop in," a smile appeared briefly. As another customer arrived, she told him goodbye and left. The exterior glass of the shop said his name was Monsieur Cambin. She'd always thought of him as Monsieur Button-Nose.

She also though of her night at the Opera. She'd missed half of Carmen but had a glimpse at the world that lay beyond the stage. And Erik. With a flick of his amber eyes he had conveyed so much. His voice told one story, but his eyes told another. The self assured façade of the mask and his flippant if not sarcastic remarks did not prevent the man inside from reaching out. A lonely man.

It had been two weeks since the Opera. When a week had passed with no more notes, she had scolded herself for hoping. After all, wasn't the Opera Ghost in love with a soprano, Mademoiselle Duvet?

* * *

"Oh, hell." Admonishing himself, Erik rolled back his sleeve, examining the ink that soaked into it. Reaching across the top of the organ to dip his pen, he found the ink well was dry. Too bad he couldn't recover the ink from his sleeve. Getting up from the bench, he hobbled a step as his muscles attempted to pull his spine back into alignment.

He should have taken a break an hour ago. Stopping to stand and take a turn around the room, he would have saved himself the lancing stab he felt in his lower back. Moving slowly, he went to the kitchen pantry where the bottle of ink was stored. Filing the well, he watched a bubble swell and burst along the side of the bottle.

Hope was like that. It was born a tiny thing, nurtured it could grow, and then in the face of overwhelming opposition, it would burst. He'd tried hadn't he? Giving in to Daroga's tirade over giving the matchmaker a chance he'd had the fortune to meet with a woman who could actually tolerate his presence. And she'd been pleasant, too.

And she'd been human. She was soft, and warm, and smelled good enough to make his mouth water. Under the stairs, he'd pulled her compliant body into his arms, her head rested gently upon his chest. He'd felt things he hadn't felt since Christine had left- strong and protective. He'd felt something he had never felt when Christine was there. He felt masculine.

It terrified him.

Erik held up the bottle of ink, looking at the cluster of little bubbles that populated the edge of the liquid. A few popped, but some of the smaller ones fused together forming a more substantial bubble. He moved the bottle, the liquid swelled in a tidal wave, pushing aside the bubbles, but they returned as the flood quieted.

Could all of his hopes band together for one last defiant surge towards the surface, upward out of the darkness of his existence? He'd invested years in Christine. What did he have to lose but a mere month?

He abandoned the bottle and went to snatch up a piece of note paper. If he got to the post in time, the matchmaker would have a reply for him within two days.

* * *

The note was stuck along the edge of her mail box. Pulling it out confirmed it was from Monsieur Cigar Smoker's office again. A fluttering began in her stomach; she had to try twice to rip open the note.

She ran up the stairs, tossed her lunch pail into the apartment, and rushed to the Matchmaker's office.

Fawning Assistant was not at his desk as she pushed open the door with the last of her strength. She paused before the desk, taking deep breaths, she set a hand on it to steady herself. From the back office, the young man appeared. "Madame Monet?" He asked beaming a smile at her.

Too tired to argue, she smiled politely. "Yes," she exhaled.

From his drawer he pulled out a note. Taking it, she examined the gold edging on the snowy white paper. Glancing behind her, she backed up close to a chair between a painfully thin young woman and a brawny man who sat with his bowler clutched in nervous hands, and settled herself carefully between them.

She couldn't bring herself to open it. She'd hoped through all those days after the opera, only to be let down. Now, another of Erik's notes rested in her fingers.

Fawing Assitant made his way around his desk. Leaning against it he grinned and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Open it," he prompted.

Brushing an errant hair away from her eyes with her shaking hand, she took a breath and carefully tore open the top flap. Inside was a folded note. Sliding her fingers in, she pulled it out, and let it fall open.

_My Dearest Madame,_

_Shall we reprise Carmen? You did look splendid in your blue dress. _

_Erik_


	9. Flying

**Part Seven: Flying**

A city within a city, the opera required the experienced guidance of professional businessmen known to its citizens as Managers. Messrs. Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin were about the most useless excuse for managers that Madame Giry had had the displeasure to work for.

They'd cross examined her in the office, badgered her into revealing information on the Phantom, and had even tried to fire her. Of course, the newly hired woman who would be taking her place as the concierge met with an unfortunate accident concerning the main chandelier. Tsk!

She'd tried to warn them. Make the Ghost happy, and everyone would be happy. But no, buffoons that they were, they were still attempting to rid themselves of him. Stubborn asses, what was a mere 240,000 francs a year compared to the smooth running of the opera under the watchful eye of the Phantom? Didn't he suggest casting roles that suited the audience? Didn't he keep the drunken patrons in line? Didn't his presence in Box 5 insure that each performance would go smoothly?

Now she'd been summoned to the office again by the buffoons. Squaring her shoulders and adjusting her hat, she knocked at their door.

"Madame Giry," Monsieur Richard spoke. "Please, have a seat."

Wary of his greeting, she sat on the edge of the chair before the two manager's desks.

"We've heard that a woman was seen entering Box 5."

"Of course, Monsieur."

Richard and Moncharmin shot each other a look, "Are you sure?"

She made a choking sound, "I know what a woman looks like."

Moncharmin added, "An actual _woman_?"

"Yes, Monsieur, a living, breathing, woman."

Armand Moncharmin, got up from his desk and began to pace. "This could be our chance."

"To get rid of the Phantom," Richard added.

Since the fools were absorbed in their plans, Madame Giry excused herself. Opening the door, she turned to speak, "You have not listened to my advice before, Monsieurs. I doubt you will do so now, but, I should warn you. The Phantom knows all."

"Yes, yes," Richard waved her out impatiently.

She stepped out and closed the door, but opened it again and stuck her head in to add, "Remember the chandelier." She slammed the door. Idiots. Cretins. She shivered at the thought of what moronic plots they were working on at this minute. Perhaps she should leave a note.

* * *

Once again, Mirielle arrived by cab for the performance of Carmen. Walking unhurriedly up the staircase she walked down the hall to the entry to box five. Madame Giry appeared, offering her program with a smile. "Good evening, Madame Giry."

"Good evening to you, Madame Montalais. I hope you enjoy your evening."

Mirielle settled herself in her chair and glanced over the rail at the collecting audience below.

"Madame."

She turned to look at Erik's chair, but he was not there. Glancing at the pillar in the wall, he was not there either.

"Madame?"

She leaned over the rail and looked over at a pair of statues along the wall. "Erik?"

"Yes, my dear. We shall be taking in the opera from another venue."

"Why?"

The voice traveled around her, raising the hair on the back of her neck. "Because my managers plan on interrupting us."

She felt the brush of his hand along her shoulder. Turning, a great dark cape encircled her. "Hang on," came his urgent whisper.

He swept her into a turn, like the beginning of a waltz step. The light around her spun, and then there was darkness. Something bumped under her feet, and with a whisper, the cape was flung aside and she was standing on a platform.

She'd clung to his arm in the darkness, but now her fingers dug into the muscle under his sleeve in earnest. Glancing below her feet was a drop of perhaps thirty feet to the stage.

"I have you," he spoke softly. "Just look at me, my dear." His gloved hand stole under her chin, and turned her face to his. The flash of his strange eyes was all she saw, lost under a black mask. Her feet responded to the pull of his arms, and she followed him until he stopped.

There was a trace of fear in her eyes. "Are you afraid of heights?" he asked.

"Not the heights, just the falling. Sometimes I dream that I can fly."

She could discern his lips at the edge of the mask, they pulled away to reveal straight white teeth. His voice purred, "Fly with me, Mirielle."

His arm tightened around her waist, the cape unfurled from around her as the sensation of moving shook her. Glancing aside, she saw they were moving in the air across to another platform. With a squeak, she buried her face against his vest.

He side stepped her, and turned her onto the next platform. Erik reached out to grasp the rope to the other suspended platform. Giving the knots in the rope a quick jerk, the other platform swung away. He stood with her a moment. "We've stopped now."

Mirielle peaked to the side. A short walk away was a blessedly solid looking catwalk. She felt him transfer her hand to his, and again the sweeping turn as he was suddenly in her view, leading her to the platform.

Below her feet she heard the hushed voices of the cast and the stage directors calling for everyone to get ready for the curtain. "Are we going to watch from here?" she asked in a quiet voice. She glanced up and could see across the stage to the box they had left.

"No, my dear," came his reply. His voice so close to her ear, she thought she felt the brush of the mask.

A tug on her hand and she followed. Forward past the curtains in front of the stage and upward towards the chandelier. His steps quicker now, he led her through a weaving forest of ropes to a small door at the end of the catwalk. Ducking down, she followed him into the black interior.

As before, when she had followed him through the dark, she heard only her own footfalls. Finally, they emerged through another small door. Standing up, she took in a hexagonal shaped space. Close to what looked like a dome on the floor stood two chairs. Next to one was an ice bucket with a bottle, and a vase of roses. A copy of the performance's program sat on one chair. Looking down, she saw passed the edge of the chandelier to the stage below.

Seating her in the chair, Erik swept off his cape and hung it over one of the lower ends of the beams over their heads. Watching her profile as she leaned forward to gaze down through the glass panels on the sides of the dome, he seated himself next to her.

"This is a bit unusual, but I believe you can see enough of the performance from here." He offered her a rose with an inclination of his head.

She sat back and rested her hand on his arm. In the dimness of the space around them, only the jeweled pin in his cravat and the pin point reflections in his eyes were visible. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she could make out his shoulders and the mask. Coming towards her was a flute of Champagne; she could see his gloved fingers gently grasping the glass. She took the flute and waited for him to retrieve his. Raising hers in answer to his, the glasses tinkled as they met. "To my charming companion," he offered.

She sipped the liquor, feeling the bubbles dance along her tongue. "Thank you," she replied. Again, she could discern the smile along the edge of the mask. His chin looked sharp but broad so as not to be pointed.

As the curtain went up he closed his eyes, taking in everything. Her soft breathing and the occasional rustle of her dress were counterpoints to the exquisite warmth of her hand and that tantalizing scent she wore. He could feel her response to the music through the pressure of her hand in his. Her wistful sighs in response to the story made him jealous of Bizet. Perhaps he could wring from her that soft response to his compositions.

Intermission arrived. This was where things had fallen apart on their last evening together. "Would you care for more?"

Mirielle offered her glass back to him. "Yes, thank you." The flash of his sherry colored eyes examining her made her breathing hitch. He was talking about the champagne wasn't he?

"A trifle sweet for my palette," he commented.

The ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. "Perhaps something with more spice would suit your taste?"

My, but that did sound flirtatious. "I have a passion for the tart."

With the word 'passion' she felt a river of heat run thorough her body. She transferred the stem of her glass to both hands.

"I enjoy the heat of highly spiced dishes," Erik added.

Her soft gasp turned into a self deprecating chuckle. She took a gulp of her drink to cover her nervous reaction. Food. Wasn't he talking about food? "I find satisfaction in the exotic. But the dish should simmer, not burn."

His chin worked, and she waited for him to respond but he took another drink instead.

Thankfully, the curtain was coming up for the continuation of the performance. He felt the moisture under the mask and knew he had started sweating. The widow Montalais had quite effectively ignited the air with her soft admonishment.


	10. Falling

**Thanks Reviewers! Happy Easter. **

**Part Eight: Falling**

Erik glanced at Mirielle. She held the rose he had given her. She surreptitiously lifted her hand to her cheek, resting her elbow on the chair. The rose's dark petals slid to rest on the gentle swell of her breast. She looked so peaceful. Is this how it was between men and women? The quiet comfort of knowing the other waited with you.

There was such an uproar at Christine's leaving that he had thought he would forever be numbed by the feeling of his hopes and his heart drawn apart. The days of begging her to love him, commanding her obedience, confronting her about the Vicomte. And the mask; she'd plucked it off with her slim, nimble fingers. He could not remember if she screamed, he could only hear his own anguished shrieks at her deceit.

And she'd lied. _Show me your face without fear Erik_. She'd called him 'monster' even after their two weeks together and their duets. She'd only wanted to go back to her little fellow. And he had let her. He'd been an aging man whose hope for love had come crashing down when he had realized that she would never love him as a man. She'd thought she loved the angel of music, until she saw his face.

The opera was in its final act. Don José had hidden, following Carmen to the arena in Seville. Outside, he confronts her claiming he loves her still, and her denial of that love will cause the ruin of his soul.

_Have we not treaded this path, Christine? I offered you everything and you still denied me until the stroke of eleven. The grasshopper or the scorpion? You called me 'monster' again, and turned the scorpion that saved that boy and several square blocks of Paris. I was a monster, for the love of you._

Carmen is not so lucky. She declares she does not love Don José and that she has never lied. She tosses his ring down, and he speaks the last words she will hear: _Well then, you_ _are damned._

Mirielle gasped as Don José withdrew his knife, and pursuing the gypsy, stabbed her through the heart. Carmen stumbled and died, leaving her grieving lover to give himself up.

As the curtain came down, Mirielle turned to him with a sad smile. This time he thought he knew what the smile was for though. No matter how many times he saw his favorite operas, as the curtain came down, he wanted to see them again. "Did you enjoy it, Madame?"

"Yes," she replied wistfully. "Poor Don José, his life was ruined by her."

He nodded in agreement. She sat smiling, and he felt an odd tingling feeling as he saw one bright red petal resting on her bodice, as if she had been the one stabbed on the stage.

"Did you enjoy it?" she asked.

"With the exception of Michaela's part, I think the performance was flawless."

She asked in surprise, "You didn't like her?"

"No, not the part, the soprano doing it. She's quite pretentious."

"Mademoiselle Full of Herself," she replied. "I did get that feeling."

Erik examined her face as she spoke. He steepled his fingers and spoke with a slight tilt of his head, "You've done that before."

"What?"

"Called someone out with a description rather than a name," he replied.

She smiled again and rolled her eyes. "That's just something I do. It made it easier on me to remember peoples' names if I memorized a description of them. For instance, that baritone who portrayed Lt. Zuniga, I think of him as "Latin Lover", because to me he seems like he thinks he is. Or our matchmaker, M. Cigar-Smoker, he is actually M. Laval."

"And how do you describe me?"

She seemed to hold her breath. "I don't."

He grimaced inside the mask. "Come, come, you have to call me something." He shot to his feet and walked around the dome. "What am I? Am I Monsieur Mask?" His fingers uncurled gracefully next to his face.

Although his tone was light, Mirielle felt a change in his voice. Light and teasing it none the less held a razor sharp edge. She shook her head. "No."

"What else then? The Faceless Man, The Voice, The Cape Wearer," he spat. "The Ugly Man Who Has To Hire A Matchmaker?" He stalked towards her. "Perhaps I'm Monsieur No Nose?"

He was bearing down upon her, she instinctively sat back in the chair. Clutching the rose, she felt the sting of the thorn. His eyes had disappeared into dark holes, raising the hair along her arms. "I think of you as Erik."

For nearly fifty years he'd watched people. If he had learned anything at all, it was that her eyes were not lying. He took in a slow breath. "I've frightened you haven't I?"

She could only look at him; a mix of unease and confusion making her heart hammer and her breath shallow. She was alone with the Phantom, helpless to get back down to earth without him.

The golden eyes appeared again, "You've cut your finger." His skeletal digits reached for hers.

She transferred the rose to the other hand. A dark drop of blood swelled from the tip of her finger. Reaching into his coat, Erik pulled out a handkerchief and taking her hand, pressed it to the wounded flesh. "I'm sorry."

"No harm done," she replied softly.

* * *

The sounds below them were dying down. The final curtain was finished and the evening's patrons were filing out. Richard's hand crept towards the handle on the door of box five. With a quick turn, he and Moncharmin burst into the room.

No one was in the box. Richard went forward to run his hands along the backs of the chairs. Perhaps they were both ghosts and they still occupied the seats. He startled, yanking his hand away as Armand Moncharmin tapped his shoulder. "Where is she," he hissed.

"How in the world would I know," Richard retorted. "Madame Giry ushered her to the box, she has to be here somewhere."

His partner had retreated to the corner behind the door, his eyes white with fear. "She couldn't just disappear could she," he asked in a small voice.

"Brace up, Armand," Richard commanded. "They're here somewhere. And I'm determined to find out where."

"The stable," Armand blurted. He'd whipped out his handkerchief and it fluttered in his hand before his mouth as he spoke.

Richard glared at his partner. "What?"

"The stable. They took the horse remember? The performance is done; maybe he's taking her home."

"Good God," Richard sighed.

"Well," Moncharmin added, "he could be." He stepped forward and wiped his hands down his jacket.

Richard went to the front of the box, leaning his fists on the rail he scanned the seats below. The door swung open, to the surprised yelp of Moncharmin who flew to hide behind it. At the same moment, Richard dived for the far wall behind the curtain. Madame Giry stood with her hand on the knob and a vexed expression on her sharp features. "Monsieur Richard?"

"Where is she," he demanded, flinging aside the curtain.

"Who? Madame Montalais?" she sputtered

"Of course," he bit out.

"How would I know? My job is to usher people to their boxes, not sit and hold their hand through the performance," she huffed; the dark feather on her hat shaking in emphasis. Turning, she walked away from the box. Richard and Moncharmin followed, looking pensive.

* * *

Taking her hand, he pulled gently, "We go back this way as well." He stood on the platform suspended by ropes. Bidding a sad farewell to the solid catwalk underneath her feet, she clasped her rose between her teeth, grabbing for a rope with her freed hand, she stepped across to the platform.

Erik licked his lips, trying not to laugh at her. "Shall I hold that for you?"

She let go of the rope once she was steady, and withdrew the rose. Glancing over the edge, she saw a few people out sweeping the floor of the stage below them. "How long do they stay behind?"

"Another hour. The cast will be in the gallery flirting with the wealthy patrons, and the rest of the crew will be decidedly drunk in under an hour, crawling their way to their beds."

"Could I stay long enough to see the stage?"

He looked down at her in surprise. "You wish to see the sets?"

She gave an impish smile. "If I could."

Again, the slice of a smile along the edge of his mask, and he stepped back onto the platform with her in tow. "Of course, Madame, anything you desire," he bowed gracefully.

The light below them threw long shadows along the wall as he wove through the ropes and passed the pulleys and sandbags along the sections of the platform that had a rail. Going slowly down a few steps to another platform, and across the width of the stage, they made their way down in ever descending steps in and out of the shadows.

Waiting on a catwalk on one side, they stood silently until the last man retreated from the stage. Erik leaned over, capturing a rope that wound over a pulley. Reeling the rope up, he tied an end to another along the rail. Tying off the end of the last rope to a stanchion, he called, "Come, Madame."

Mirielle stepped forward, looking to see what platform he was going to magically summon, when his arm snaked around her, lifted her slightly and gave the rope a tug.

They were falling; the floorboards of the stage rushing up to meet them. The rope went taught with a sharp snap, along its length the pulleys squeaked in protest as the other ropes responded in succession, and a group of sandbags whizzed upwards in a sharp arc like a flight of ponderous geese. Before she could open her mouth to scream, she felt him jar to a halt, and her feet suddenly meet the floor.

Erik glanced over her head. "Madame?" She'd fisted her hands in his coat and buried her face in it once again. She really was afraid of falling.

"Mummph?" She tried to respond against his vest. She felt his body shake, and heard his deep masculine chuckle.

"Are you all right?" He heard another muffled answer, and told her, "No more ropes, Madame. We're on the stage."

She continued to hold on to him. He'd manage to start her heart racing in more than one manner. She exhaled slowly, and looked up.

Erik reared his head back, to better see her face. He hoped he hadn't frightened her that badly. But it wasn't fright on her face. She looked as if she had just awakened from a dream, soft and bewildered.

Unbidden, one of his hands slid up the dark sapphire velvet of her dress to caress the side of her neck. His other hand still clung to her waist, fitting her body against his. He'd burn in hell was his last thought as he leaned down to touch his lips to hers.

She closed her eyes as his mask descended towards her. His hands cradled her face as his lips pressed against hers tentatively. She could still feel the lithe muscles of his tall frame under her hands.

My God. Women came in flavors! He could taste the champagne and something else upon her lips. He went deeper some how. Her lips responded to the movements of his. Absorbed in a madness he would not even attempt to deny, he pushed his tongue against her lips and gained entry to paradise.

Her hands relaxed, splaying over his chest. He still held her head. Perhaps he was afraid the mask would be knocked askew. There wasn't that awkward moment when the two of them had to decide whose face would tilt which way to allow for the noses.

He broke the kiss, pulling away from her with a shaky breath. He was damned and twice damned again. It was hell living with the dreams of Christine's chaste kiss to his forehead, and now he'd been the man he had always longed to be and kissed Mirielle deeply and completely.

He stepped back from her. A slight flexing of her brows showed her confusion. "I should not have done that." His words seemed to confuse her more.

"Why? We both went to a matchmaker, Erik. Isn't this what you were hoping for?"

He'd ascended to heaven with the kiss, now it was time to come back on earth with his regrets. He stepped away from her, as if the distance would lessen the possibility of hurting her. "I don't love you." The words tasted like acid.

Her wondering eyes scanned the mask. "Erik, I like you very much, but I don't love you either." The golden eyes flickered. "Love takes time." She licked her lips and tried to smile. "You still love her, don't you? That Duvet girl."

"That's Daaé," he ground out. Oh hell. Why should that make him angry? "Who told you that?"

She saw his rigid posture and the firm set of his chin. She waved a hand and replied, "Oh, several people. It doesn't matter, really." She tried another smile that died quickly. "I understand."

He had hurt her, he was still hurting her. Her eyes betrayed her pulling away from him inside. "No you don't." He spread his hands before him. "I am hideous, Mirielle. I've spent my life's energies performing the most heinous of deeds." He paused, not being quite able to look her in the eye. "I'm not only ugly on the outside, but the inside as well."

She stood staring at the jewel in his cravat as his throat worked, he must be trying to say something else.

"Forget me, you aren't meant to suffer this," he gestured wildly. He stood very straight and tall and bowed, "Goodbye Madame." He turned on his heel and strode towards the back of the stage.

Mirielle took the rose and quickly tossed it, catching him on the shoulder. He spun and glanced down. "I'll never forget you," she said and turned away.

She listened to his retreating steps. There was a sudden soft sound, and turning she saw he had vanished. Closing her eyes, she felt the sting of tears building behind her lids. She walked slowly to the back of the stage. She'd find her way out and get a cab home.


	11. A Forlorn Rose

**Part Nine: A Forlorn Rose**

Mirielle followed the backdrop until it opened into a corridor leading off of the stage. Coming towards her were a pair of giggling young women still in their gypsy regalia from the opera. "Excuse me," she began holding out a hand.

Stopping abruptly, they swayed as they peered at her. "Can you show me the way out?" With the degree of affected dignity that only the truly drunken can muster, they began giving her directions. Listening to the tittering duet, Mirielle believed she would find herself on the way to China if she followed the circuitous route they suggested. Nodding politely, she lifted her skirt and kept walking.

Zacharie de Brie had seen the woman on the stage. He'd been on his way out the door as well, when he'd heard the voices of a man and a woman on the set. Peering around one of the false fronts, he'd seen the man turn and taking a few steps, lift a trapdoor and disappear. Regardless of only working as a reporter for the _Epoque_ for under a year, he knew a story when he saw one.

Approaching quietly, he said, "Madame? May I be of service?"

She turned to see a pleasant looking young man who didn't reek of wine from a close distance and told him, "I can't find my way out."

Taking her arm, he introduced himself as they left the stage behind.

Close to the center of the simulacrum of the village, a trap door opened near the fountain. A dark shape swelled to turn into the height and shape of a man. Moving forward the shade got down on one knee, its dark gloved fingers gently lifting the battered rose from the floor. Tucking it safely into his breast pocket, Erik returned to the trapdoor.

* * *

Armand Moncharmin tried pushing his way to the doors of the building. The cleaning staff and a number of the crew had shown up to barricade the doors against the press.

Paris was afire with condemnation of Carmen. For the city that was the self-professed center of everything progressive, heads were shaking in disgust at the gypsy heroine of questionable morals, and her murder in front of the audience. "No wonder Bizet dropped dead," he muttered. Turning to look at the reporters at the door, he hoped the man was rolling in his grave.

Firmin Richard took one look at the men lined up at the doors, and instructed the cab driver to drop him off by the stage door. "Gossip mongers," he spat. The evening press had carried a reserved review of last night's performance. Evidently, Paris had changed its mind in the light of day.

Alighting from the cab and tossing some sous at the cabby, he stepped around the back of the cab and saw the figure of a man detach itself from the stage door. Gritting his teeth, he doffed his hat briskly and reached for the door.

"Monsieur Richard? My name is Mathurin LaChance," he offered a business card. "I'd like to ask you about the Phantom's lady."

Richard slowed to a stop. "What about her?"

"I'd like to find her Monsieur."

"Wouldn't we all," he retorted under his breath. Looking the man over he resembled every newspaper man he had ever dealt with. Dressed well enough, there was something deceptively friendly and polite that made Richard's teeth clench. The card he held declared the man was a reporter for _The Echo. _

"I'd like to do an article, a _lengthy_ article on her."

"Why are you asking me?" Richard hesitated, and asked, "What do you mean _lengthy_?"

"You read serials don't you? We could possibly stretch this one out over, say, ten weeks?"

With the ominous omen of further losses in box office due to the run of Carmen, he was not going to forsake a possible asset to the Opera's public image. "What kind of information do you need?

A short walk to his office, and twenty minutes with an angry Madame Giry, M. LaChance was on his way.

* * *

The Persian considered the rigid posture of his companion. "What happened?" he asked carefully.

"Don't take that tone with me," Erik replied smoothly. "I brought our acquaintance to an end last night. I did what was right, daroga. I gave her her opera, and I sent her home."

"I suppose this was inevitable."

"Of course. I couldn't let it go on. The woman doesn't have any idea of who or what I have been."

"Very well. You know what is best for yourself. What's next?"

"Nothing. Erik is finished, daroga. Go back to that office and withdraw my information. I will not be further engaged in seeking a companion."

"I'll stop by this afternoon."

Sensing the resignation from his companion, Erik examined the other man's face. "I mean it. No more of this nonsense. I put that poor woman through enough."

"Did she say that?" Nadir asked.

"No."

With a resigned shake of his head, the Persian left the house by the lake.

He'd left Persia to follow Erik. He knew what sort of infamy the man had been forced to practice at the court of the Shah-in-Shah. Something told him that Erik's life was still to be lived, that things were not finished in the designs of the heavens.

* * *

Mirielle rushed home from her job. Running upstairs, she retrieved the blue velvet gown Erik had bought for her. Hurrying to the shop, she caught the Camille Ouvard at the till.

"Good afternoon, I need to put this up for consignment."

The other woman examined her face. "I'm sorry. Didn't he like it?"

"No, the dress was fine. I don't think he was happy with me." She attempted a smile in response to the woman's commiserating glance. "I'd like to send the money back to him to cover the cost."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It only seems fair." She left the shop quickly, loosing herself in the stream of humanity that made Paris.

* * *

Arriving in the small office, she was greeted by Fawning Assistant. "I need to remove my name from the registry.

"Oh, I'm sorry Madame Moutier."

"Montalais, Madame Montalais," she repeated slowly.

A movement caught her eye. A darkly handsome man sat forward in his chair examining her. Whether he was interested in her or not, she'd had enough. Her name would disappear from the records.

"Yes, Madame. I'm sorry you're leaving us," Fawning Assistant glanced at her.

Leaning across the desk, she saw he did actually find her name and mark it out. "Thank you."

Turning towards the door, she noticed the man who had caught her eye was gone. That was rather disconcerting. She pushed open the door and started towards her apartment.

"Madame?"

She turned and saw the dark skinned man doffing his hat. "We have a mutual friend I believe." He stepped closer. "A friend named Erik."

"Yes," she replied.

"Would you care for a cup of coffee?"

Mirielle looked across the street at the café he indicated with a sweep of his hand. He seemed to be an alright sort of fellow. He had beautiful dark eyes and a distinguished brush of grey at the temples of his dark hair. "All right."

He escorted her to a table, pulling out her chair. Introducing himself, she had to ask twice what his native name was, and giving up, decided she would call him Julien because his eyes were like jewels.

"I was sorry to hear that you will no longer be available. Erik has decided to withdraw his name as well."

A weight settled onto her shoulders. "I'm sorry to hear that. He shouldn't give up, just because it didn't work out between us."

The Persian smiled gently. "It wouldn't have worked for anyone, Madame. Erik is a genius. He is blessed with astounding talents that any man would be happy to have. But he also carries the greatest of sorrows."

"His mask?"

"That is the outward sign of the pain he endures. The true depths of his sorrow comes from the knowledge of a life he feels was wasted. I came upon him when I was sent to Russia to find a great magician. As he was a foreigner invited to the palace of the Shah-in–Shah of Persia, I was to be his shadow, assuring he would not wander into any trouble. Unfortunately for him, the Shah's mother found him. While he was engaged as an architect for the Shah, the Khanum found another use for him. He constructed elaborate devices of torture for her. Each had to be more artistic, more frightening, and more deadly than its predecessor."

Their coffee arrived; he sipped his without embellishment, while her spoon clinked as she lightened hers with cream.

"In my country, we practice arranged marriages. Companionship is essential; love is a gift that grows for the fortunate. I do not think that it is so different here. You hope for a companion, and possibly a love. Erik hopes for redemption, I believe."

Mirielle spoke frankly, "I don't know if I can give him that."

His returning smile made her think of a cat contemplating birds in a sunny window. "When I left him this morning there was a forlorn rose propped in a vase on his mantel. Was it yours?" By the surprise on her face, he knew he had surmised correctly.

"Do you still consider yourself available if the right gentleman were to come along?"

Looking at those beautiful dark eyes, she thought he might be suggesting himself. "I suppose so. I am having dinner at my apartment tomorrow with a gentleman and my roommates."

"Who is this gentleman if I might inquire?"

"Monsiuer Cambin. He's my pork butcher."

The Persian felt his own smile threaten to overwhelm his face. "Oh, that is just perfect."

* * *

Resting his hat on his knee, he listened to the singers practicing on the stage. As gentle as a whisper, the air stirred and he knew he was not alone.

"My, two visits in as many days, daroga, what mischief do you hope to catch me at?"

"None at all, Erik. I was confirming with you that I removed your name at the Matchmaker's," Nadir replied.

Erik stood next to the pillar, arms crossed over his chest. "You have the annoying habit of letting your sentences trail off when your face tells me you wish to say more."

The Persian flashed a quick grin. "I met your Madame."

Erik felt a tightening in his chest. He didn't want to ask, but blurted the words anyway. "Is she alright?"

"I think so. She's seeing the Pork Butcher."

Everyone on the stage held their breath in surprise when they heard a voice like God on high shake the building._ "The Pork Butcher!"_


	12. Monsieur Fat Chance

**Part Ten: Monsieur Fat Chance**

Mirielle smiled and passed the dish of potatoes. Clément Cambin had arrived with a bottle of wine and sliced pork for the dinner. He'd donned an apron and rolled up his sleeves in the kitchen, talking to all of her roommates as they went about preparing dinner.

He'd proven to be a nice fellow. But she had noticed that her roommate Ursulé and Clément had seemed a little quiet. Excusing herself to make a trip to the kitchen to get more rolls, she followed Ursulé. Mirielle asked, "What do you think of him?"

Ursulé rinsed a dish. "He seems nice." Waiting for her to finish, Mirielle noticed she was still rinsing the same dish.

"Do you like him?" They had talked while cooking and Ursulé had mentioned her Austrian mother's recipe for Pork Schnitzel, to which Clément seemed very interested in trying. Picking up a pan and moving it closer to the sink, Mirielle told her, "It's all right if you like each other."

The other woman's face flamed. "I'm sorry, Mirielle. This has never happened to me before." Ursulé was nearly six feet tall, with dark red hair, gentle brown eyes and charming dimples Although she was graceful, she would fade to the background when introduced to people because her height made her feel awkward.

"Oh, cherié," Mirielle smiled, "I'm happy for you both."

"Then it's alright if …?"

"Yes. I like him, but I think you two get along very well. Why not try?"

Ursulé's nervous hand crept to her cheek. "Oh, I don't know. I mean, he may not want to."

"Ask him out," Mirielle prodded. "I think he'd be flattered." She paused and looked towards the door. "Just be careful, he might be after your Mama's schnitzel." With a wink, she went to back to the table and asked Clément to get the rolls she had forgotten. After a quick look around the table, he got up and went to the kitchen.

She poured some more wine in her glass. Well, her second foray into making a gentleman's acquaintance was decidedly shorter than the first. She found herself remembering the dark and Erik's voice. With a shiver she finished her wine.

* * *

He lay back on the sofa and contemplated the items on the fireplace mantel. The slim silver vase was one of his mother's possessions. She'd said it was a gift of her Mother when she married. She'd been furious when he'd climbed up onto the chair, teetering on the arm as his other small foot slid down between the arm and the cushion. He'd nearly toppled the vase as he grabbed at the mantel. She'd sent him to his room. As if she ever needed a reason to send him away.

Like a shinning finger, the highlights along the silver cylinder lead upward to the head of the rose that listed to one side. Its blood colored petals still held their elegant arrangement.

Getting off the sofa, he gathered his coat and prepared to go out. As he went to the bedroom to retrieve his wallet, he paused in the parlor.

Sugar? Was it sugar they said would make the bloom last longer? He fetched the vase. "Here, little fellow. Let's see if this will help." Taking it to the kitchen he added a bit of sugar to a glass of water and topped off the vase. He dropped it off on the mantel on his way out of the house. A petal fell.

* * *

Mirielle paused to wipe her forehead. The new girl looked to be about thirteen. She'd spent a week running up and down the length of the room replacing the empty bobbins of thread, but the boss told Mirielle that today the girl would start on the looms.

The poor thing was clumsy, her thin fingers shaking as she attempted to keep the rhythm of the work. The shuttle would stop on a thread, the heddles lifted and dropped too quickly; the combing board would take too long.

"Take your time," Mirielle coaxed her.

Another failed attempt and she could see the perspiration gleaming above the girl's lips. This was not a terribly hard task to manage, but she sensed the girl was too nervous.

"Here. I want you to close your eyes." Mirielle told her, grasping her slim shoulders from behind. "Can you hear my voice?"

The girl nodded. "Very well. Now, listen to the shuttle. Can you hear that whoosh noise?"

The girl's head turned, following the shuttle with her ear. "Don't look at where the noise is coming from; just listen to the way it sounds. Like a dance, one step to raise the heddle, two steps to move the shuttle, three steps to push the combing board." Helping the girl to move at a steady pace, she built the intuitive motions of her hands to accomplish the weaving.

"Good," Mirielle gave her slim shoulders a squeeze. "That wasn't so bad was it?"

Letting the girl get on with her work, Mirielle returned to the loom she worked. When it was time for lunch, she brought the girl with her to the table where a group of her coworkers sat together, introducing her. When it was time to return, Mirielle noticed a well dressed young man coming towards the group.

"Do I have the pleasure of addressing a Madame Montalais," his voice purred.

"I am Madame Montalais," she replied, slowing her steps towards the building.

"I am Mathurin LaChance." He slid a business card out of his pocket in two fingers and held it out for her. "I'm a reporter for _The Echo_. I'd like to talk to you about your evenings at the Opera."

She had been glancing at the card as he spoke. Looking up at the young man, she was struck at the arrogant way he looked down at her. The trace of a pleasant smile he wore did not displace the way his eyes took her in. They measured her, categorized her, made note of her clothing and her figure underneath, and assumed what her lot in life was.

Mirielle was used to men looking at her. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but since she had bloomed early, men's eyes always moved over her body in the way that they wished their hands could. Many were the times she had carried on conversations with men who stared pointedly at her bosom. She'd embarrassed several by pointing out that her head was _above_ her neck.

"I'm sorry. I'm working right now." She turned away.

"You don't understand, Madame." LaChance stepped behind her. "You see, I intend to write an article about the Opera Ghost for my paper."

She spun to look at him. "I do understand M. LaChance. What you fail to understand is that I am employed to work here at the mill. They do not pay me to talk to reporters."

She continued through the door and back to her loom. She did notice that the man loitered around the yard for a few more minutes, as if deciding whether he could follow her inside. "Monsieur Fat Chance," she christened him. What transpired between her and Erik was no one's business.


	13. The Velvet Widow

**Greetings one and all. Another night at the Opera.  
**

**Part Eleven: The Velvet Widow**

Zacharie de Brie brushed aside the papers on the café's counter. Seeing LaChance's byline, he took up the newspaper and started reading, his teeth grinding the entire time. LaChance was pursuing the story of the Opera Ghost, going so far as to claim interviewing the staff of the Garnier. What made Zacharie's blood boil was the man's claim to be nearing an exclusive from the woman he had christened "The Velvet Widow".

Mathurin LaChance was everything Zacharie hoped to never be accused of emulating in his desire to be a reporter. Arrogant and over-ambitious, LaChance never did research when a few franc notes could do it for him. His interviews were quick sessions of badgering people and writing a scathing if not slanted viewpoint of the facts presented.

And now, LaChance claimed to be close to the woman who had been seen in Box Five on two occasions.

As the regular columnist was out ill, Zacharie had volunteered to do the review of _Carmen_. Despite his lack of knowledge in opera, it would give him a chance at something other than filling in the business column and obituaries.

The Velvet Widow. She'd been on the stage with the Opera Ghost after the performance. By her parting words, Zacharie felt that their affair had ended that night. He'd hate to think of what LaChance would make of her. The man would take great delight in embarrassing her in front of all of Paris, no; all of France if he thought it made him look important. LaChance would stoop to what ever gossip mongering he needed to use to draw out the Opera Ghost.

Tossing down coins for his coffee, he slapped the paper closed. That nice woman didn't deserve this, and Zacharie de Brie was going to make sure that she wouldn't endure it alone.

* * *

Despite the reviews of the performances, the entry of the Garnier was packed with the incoming audience for the evening. Richard and Moncharmin circulated at the head of the stairs, bestowing benign smiles on the public.

With his knowledge of acoustics, Erik had added a small alcove to Garnier's design of the foyer. From there, he could stand unseen by the crowd and listen to the conversations of the patrons. One in particular caused him to venture out a little farther, sliding along the wall in his dark clothing, he stayed to the shadows.

The group was dressed in similar brown coats that stood out among the dark swallow-tails of the other gentleman. Eyes constantly shifting, they clumped around a gaunt looking woman at their center. Her emerald dress should have been fashionable, but looked decidedly dingy; the rows of ribbons down the length and the bustle looked sadly wilted. An oversized hat sat on her tower of hair, a plume of stark fuschia bowed over it. Her artfully applied cosmetics did nothing to relieve the disapproving pinch of her lips.

Watching them finding their seats, heads bobbing, eyes darting, Erik was reminded of rats. The woman sat regally among her little group until the people in the row behind them leaned forward to whisper to her. Her face drawn in an expression of distaste, she reached up to remove her hat while her toadies pulled off their bowlers and glared at the people. Yes, definitely rodents.

Too bad the rat catcher wasn't scheduled to be here tonight. Erik wondered if the bait he used would have set the waxed mustaches of the men twitching. He glanced around the audience, the seats were mostly filled. He'd have to come up with an ingenious way to rid the building of these people if they stirred up any trouble.

He made his way to one of the columns, sliding open the false front, and up into the rafters. Humming as he walked in the upper ceiling out of sight. He did so enjoy a challenge.

* * *

Zacharie joined the audience as they retreated to the foyer during the intermission. He eavesdropped as he circulated with a drink in his hand. There seemed to be a lot of arguments over what the public thought of the character of Carmen.

While meandering along a hall, he glanced in a mirror. Walking quickly were a group of men and a tall gaunt looking woman. The staccato tapping of her heels and the sliding gate of the men around her seemed oddly out of place to him. He turned to follow them after they passed by.

As they came out into the area of the grand staircase, the woman lifted her arms and was about to speak when a loud squawk echoed through the room. Zacharie stood mouth agape as the woman slapped a palm across her mouth. The whites of her eyes rolling, she turned to speak to one of her group when a chorus of what sounded like the mating calls of crows. The gaunt woman opened her mouth to emit a squawk, and one of her companions began crowing like a rooster.

The crowd turned to examine the odd phenomena, but the group pushed their way down the staircase. One fellow appeared to squeak when his left foot hit the stairs. Another chorused in half way down, his footfalls accented by what sounded suspiciously like flatulence. As the last of the group stepped off onto the polished marble before the entrance, the gaunt woman cast one last glare over her shoulder. When her lips parted this time, there came the sound of a tremendous burp.

Erik smiled nastily from his vantage point across the grand staircase. There would be no trouble from that bunch of vermin. If they wished to criticize the performance, they could take up a pen and voice their opinions through the local newspaper.

He turned to walk away when he noticed a man across on the other wing of the stairs. The younger man must have seen his reflection as he stood before the mirror. With any luck, he would not have noticed the mask.

Zacharie de Brie stood rooted to the carpet. A scant forty feet from him, once again, was the Opera Ghost. If he stepped smartly, he might have a chance to speak to him.

The little chiming bell warned the opera goers it was time to return to their seats. Erik wound his way up to his box, and glanced down at the audience. Hearing footsteps outside the box, he faded into the shadow near the wall and pulled open the pillar.

Zacharie paused with his hand on the knob. Should he knock? He tapped lightly at the door and swung it open. "Monsieur," he questioned the dim expanse before him. Emboldened by the lack of response, he took a seat. He tried again in a hushed tone, "Monsieur, I need to speak with you. It's about your Madame."

He nearly leaped out of his chair when a voice behind him asked, "What do you want, young man?"

He turned his head to either side, but saw no one.

"Well, speak up," came the voice again sounding tired.

"I met your Madame the night of the last performance, Monsieur. Since then, a reporter for _The Echo_ named LaChance has been following her."

Erik sighed heavily. "Damned inquisitive booby. He'd better not bother her."

"LaChance has no scruples; he'll badger her until he gets some scrap of a story from her."

Erik brushed a hand over his chin. "Why should you care, Monsieur?"

"de Brie, Monsieur. Zacharie de Brie. I report for _L'Epoque_."

"Ah, that explains it."

"No, Monsieur. I talked to Madame. On the stage the night she was last here."

"Yes," the voice prompted.

"Well, she's a nice woman and I'd hate to see what might happen to her." Zacharie had the oddest feeling, as if something passed behind him.

"What do you mean 'happens to her'?" The voice sharpened.

"LaChance will stoop at nothing to get her to talk. If she won't he'll fabricate something."

"And how would you know?" came the silken question.

Zacharie shrugged in the dark. "I've interviewed people who he's talked to. He'll get inventive if she doesn't give him something."

Silence pervaded the darkness, and Zacharie wondered if he were alone. "You do care about her, don't you?" he asked in a soft voice.

The reply was spoken so softly, Zacharie thought it might have been a suggestion whispered into his mind. "Yes. I care about her."

"I can keep an eye on her if you wish, Monsieur."

"That would be kind of you. She lives on the Boulevard Poincare, number 23D." The voice faded away.

Getting up, Zacharie de Brie straightened his coat and left the opera. Hang the review; he'd caught enough of the crowd's thoughts to write one. He needed to find the Velvet Widow.

Erik didn't stay till the end of the performance. He went through the hidden door in the third cellar, across the mirrored chamber and out another door to enter his dinning room. In the darkness, his eyes sought the silver vase.

* * *

Mirielle returned to her apartment with her bag of food and her lunch pail. She'd almost gotten the door closed when there was a sharp knock on it. Opening it again, she saw the one person she did not want to see. Monsieur Fat Chance stood beaming at her.

"Madame Montalais," he began, "I had hoped you would be available for an interview this evening."

She opened the door further, but stood across the opening so that the man could not get past her. "I am not interested, Monsieur. I'm sorry, but what happens between me and my gentleman is none of your business."

He leaned against the door jamb, taking off his hat and twirling it on a finger. "I could make it worth your while," he insinuated.

She had a long enough day without having to argue with this popinjay. Grasping his hat by the brim, she took it off of his finger and tossed it down the stair well. "No thank you, Monsieur. You can pick up your hat on the way out."

The young man's smile turned into an ugly sneer. "Have it your way."

As she slammed the door on his retreating back, Mirielle doubted her encounters with Monsieur Fat Chance were over.


	14. Nadir Kahn

**Part Twelve: Abd al-Majiid Junaibi Nadir Khan **

The light in the early November evening cold hovered in misty orbs around the heads of the lamp posts. The damp air sought its way into his greatcoat, slithered up his shirt cuffs and ran cold fingers around his neck where it was exposed.

From under the brim of his large felt hat, Erik could see men's dark shoes and the hems of ladies dresses as they passed him on the sidewalk. Four more streets and he'd be back at the Rue Scribe. Back home with his small bag of food, he'd prepare an omelet for his dinner and go back to his fireplace and his book.

Glancing aside, he saw his dark silhouette reflected in the store windows. Madame Ouvard 's Dress Shop still had a light on towards the back of the store. He stopped mid-stride, for standing in the window was a mannequin, dressed in the dark blue cut-velvet dress that Mirielle had worn.

It couldn't be Mirielle's. But what were the chances that Madame Ouvard could have made two dresses so similar?

Erik pushed open the shop door, its little bell declaring his presence. From the rear of the shop he heard a woman's voice. As she appeared around the end of the counter, she halted, startled no doubt, by his tall figure in a dark greatcoat.

"Madame," he voiced his greeting as warmly as possible as not to further startle her. "Is that not the dress I had you make for Madame Montalais?" He raised a gloved hand to the mannequin.

The woman's head barely turned in the direction he indicated. "I made that dress for her, yes."

"Then why is it here?"

"She wanted it sold on consignment with the money returned," she shrugged, "to you, Monsieur."

"No, Madame. I want her to keep the dress. Send it back to her, please."

"I can't. She came in to pick it up, and to drop it off. I do not know her address."

He was prepared to tell her the address when she continued speaking, "The dress has gone under bid. I cannot send it back without the interested parties being upset."

Erik paused. "What do you mean?"

"They are bidding on it, Monsieur. Haven't you seen the papers?"

When he didn't answer her question she held up a hand. "A moment, I'll bring it to you." She returned with a copy of _The Echo_ spreading it open on the counter for him to see.

As she stepped away, he came forward and read the headline. _The Velvet Widow is__surrendering the dress she wore when she accompanied the Opera Ghost._ The article warranted more than a casual glance. Taking up the paper he asked, "May I have this, Madame?"

She ducked her head. "Certainly, Monsieur." As he folded it under his arm she added, "There is a lot of interest in it. The price is already up to 1200 Francs."

"What?"

"We'll pass that money on to you, of course," she hastily reassured him. "But since it has appeared in the _L'Epoque _and _The Echo,_ the price has risen quite sharply."

"I see." He didn't really, but until he had a chance to read why the dress was now featured in two Paris newspapers, he wouldn't know what to do.

He bid the woman a pleasant evening and headed for home. The walk was considerably shortened by his brisk steps.

* * *

"It appears that Madame Montalais has become the subject of a battle upon a field of paper," Erik indicated the copy of _L'Epoque_ by Nadir's elbow. "I had a conversation with de Brie who is the writer for this newspaper. He told me the ninny who writes for _The_ _Echo_ is determined to get a story, even if it is at her expense."

Nadir's dark eyes followed Erik's pacing. "Oh, that's a shame."

"It certainly is," Erik's steps lengthened, his hands clenched.

"I wouldn't let it bother you too much. You did, after all, decide to stop seeing her." Nadir took up the paper, leafing through the pages; he held it up so Erik wouldn't see the smirk upon his face.

"She put up her dress for sale as well. Read the article, Daroga," Erik huffed.

Nadir scanned the page. "I don't see it here."

"Wait. I'll bring you _The Echo_ so that you can get the full story." Erik turned towards his bedroom.

Waiting until he disappeared around the door, Nadir stole out of the chair and went to the mantel. Like a stalwart soldier, the rose still held up its little petaled crown. Sliding it out of the vase, he pushed it through his buttonhole as he resumed his seat.

As Erik reappeared, Nadir took the paper that he offered and began looking for the article in question.

"Daroga?"

The Persian looked up in answer to Erik's puzzled voice. "What?"

"Where is my…" Erik's chest expanded as he drew in a mighty breath. "Give that back. That's my rose."

Keeping his features studiously blank, Nadir glanced at his lapel. "Of course it's yours. I took it from your vase. I forgot to get one this morning." He went back to looking at the paper.

"Its mine and I want it back," came Erik's low growl.

"It's about finished, Erik. I'll bring you some more next visit. You always were so particular about your person."

"My habits in dressing have nothing to do with my request."

"Very well," Nadir eased it gently from the buttonhole. Despite his care, a petal dropped off.

Erik's long fingers nearly had captured the plant, when Nadir tsked. "It's falling to pieces." He pulled the stem away from Erik and tossed the rose into the fireplace.

In a graceful swooping movement, Erik snatched the rose up before it went into the fire. "Abd al-Majiid Junaibi Nadir Khan! Inti mafish Mukh! Ibn Al-Himar!"

Nadir blinked at Erik's diatribe in colorful Mazandarani. "I beg your pardon?"

"Daroga, you imbecile, that was a _gift_." Erik's slender fingers gently caged the rose.

"What did you say? A gift?"

"One of the few I've had in my life," Erik said quietly. "And one that came with no conditions attached."

Nadir tossed the newspaper onto the sofa. "Did Madame Montalais give it to you?"

The masked head cocked to one side. "Always the policemen aren't you?"

"Go and wake up your luck, Erik." Nadir encouraged. It was a common Arabic saying. It meant the same in all languages. Go out and seize the possibilities of life.

"I'm not a lucky man."

"No," the Persian answered. "But I've seen the things you can create." He gestured towards the rose. "Create this as well, magician."

"I can't."

"Can't or shouldn't?" Nadir argued. When there was no reply, he pressed on, "Do not cut down the tree that gives you shade. She came to be with you three times." He waved fingers before the mask. "Three times."

"You know what I've done. What I've been."

"Yes, and I know what you do now. You've always wanted to do the right thing, Erik. It was your fortune that you traded your abilities for your survival." Nadir gestured towards the rose. "Here is a chance to do a better thing."

Putting the rose back into the vase, Erik was silent. His shoulders drooped inside his dark jacket. "I told her I didn't love her."

The Persian huffed, "It is now you who are a ninny." Raising his hands heavenward, he went on. "You kept her rose. If there was no feeling for her in your heart you would have tossed it aside." He stepped up to the mantle and rested a hand on it. "I've seen your face. Do you remember?"

Erik's head lifted sharply, his eyes were hard as brass. "Russia. The tent where I made the flowers sing. Before they begged me to take off the mask," his tone turned acid. "That's what they always want. To see how ugly Erik is."

"Do you know what I remember of that night? I remember there were tears in my eyes as the last notes came from your violin. There is so much that is beautiful in you. You told me when you took the Daaé girl that you wanted to be loved for yourself. This might be your chance."

"I'm not sure what to do." He gave a small shrug.

"None of us are where women are concerned." Nadir's smirk melted into a gentle smile. "Show her Erik. The Erik you wish to be. And quite being a ninny and invite her to dinner."

The masked man straightened.

Nadir sped a blessing skyward. _Allahu Akbar_.

* * *

Mirielle looked at the piece of paper in her bosses' hand. "Take it to the pay window," he told her.

She placed a hand on her hip and glared back at the man. "Why?"

"Sorry, Mirielle," He said. "The bosses upstairs read the papers. They don't want any publicity connected to the mill."

She snatched the paper from his hand. More than likely this was M. Fat Chance's work. She'd known instinctively that he lacked scruples. Evidently getting her fired was his petty retribution for her refusal to deal with him.

She gathered the last of her pay with shaking fingers. She needed to get to a shop and get a newspaper. She would have to find a job quickly.

She also needed to get a hold of that nice young man, Zachaire deBrie.

* * *

**A/N:** for those of you with inquiring minds, Erik says Nadir's full name followed by:

_Inti mafish Mukh!_ You have no brains.

_Ibn Al-Himar! _ You are the son of a donkey.


	15. Under the Table

**A/N: Thanks so much reviewers! Enjoy your evening with Erik and Mirielle.**

**Part Fourteen: Under The Table**

Richard and Moncharmin walked side by side through the foyer, returning to their office.

"I can't believe that man's stupidity," Richard grumbled.

"You did well."

"Thank you." Richard turned a pained grin on his partner and noted the blank look on Moncharmin's face.

"What?" his partner asked.

Richard's steps slowed. "I said, 'Thank you'."

"I heard you," Moncharmin replied. "But, why did you say that?"

"I was replying to your comment."

"What comment? I said I heard you. Richard, are you all right?" Moncharmin asked blithely.

Richard reached out a hand to his partner's shoulder. Beyond their reflections in the mirror on the wall, a third shape stood. Draped in a dark frock coat, he stood close to the same height as Richard in the mirror. A head swathed in something dark nodded regally. "You are welcome, Monsieur." There was a brief flash of reflected sunlight in the mirror, and the figure was gone.

Moncharmin had blinked at the bright light. "What was that? Did you say something else?" Looking at his partner's face, he tensed. "What is it?"

"Ghost," Richard mouthed quietly. His eyes were fixed on the mirror on the wall.

* * *

In Camille Ouvard's dress shop a stocky gentleman patted the hand of his wife. "Now, dearest. We can't afford 1500 francs." He smiled patronizingly at her pouting face.

"But it's _famous_," she said gesturing towards the dark blue cut velvet dress. "It's been in the newspaper."

He gave her hand another pat and glanced at the proprietor of the shop. The older woman smiled gently and stood with folded hands before the couple. Personally, he didn't care if it had been in the Empress's wardrobe. His wife was willowy thin, and the dress would look atrocious on her. "Sorry, dearest."

The bell rang over the shop door announcing another customer. Camille saw her chance to leave the couple to argue, and excused herself. Smiling, she greeted the one woman in Paris who the dress did fit. "Madame Montalais. Welcome!"

Mirielle smiled at the shop owner, "How are you Madame Ouvard?" She glanced at the dress. "Do you think I could have it back for another night at the Opera?"

Camille took her by the arm and led her to the manikin. "This is Madame Montalais," she informed the couple. "The Velvet Widow. She's going to take back the dress. I am sorry Madame, Monsieur."

While the husband looked relieved, the wife stared at her, thunderstruck. Mirielle had to smile at the surprise on the other woman's face. "I am sorry, but it appears I shall need it again."

"Oh . . . Oh. . . " After several more attempts at speech the woman thrust out her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Madame. I'm Jeanette Aubriot, and this is my husband, Olivier."

Mirielle took the proffered hand which kept pumping up and down as the woman grinned at her. "How do you do?" She wondered if she was going to have to fight to get her hand back when the woman let go and turned to her husband.

"We shall have to tell the de la Renaudierre's about this." She turned back to Mirielle, "What's he like, the Ghost?"

Considering the sparkle in the woman's eyes, Mirielle decided that newspapers were not the only way to get out gossip. "He's wonderful," she purred. "Such a gentleman."

Olivier Aubriot watched his wife gush over the woman. If this was the Velvet Widow, the Ghost was a lucky man. She was dark haired, bright eyed, and chatted amiably with his wife. She was graced with a rich voice and a figure that would look stunning in the dark blue dress. She'd also saved him 1500 francs.

* * *

Erik rolled up his shirt sleeves. Testing the counterweight, he gave the chain a tug. With a brief scraping sound, the door lifted and swung freely in a complete circle.

Humming to himself he made a few more adjustments. The passageway doors would be rigged precisely to herd an intruder through the labyrinth of stairs and vaults that would eventually dump them into the Paris Sewer.

With a watch in hand he retraced his steps to the beginning of the circuit of modifications he had wrought over the last four days. Starting the second hand moving he walked casually passed the first trap, following the openings as they appeared. He sidestepped the last set of weights and pressure plates and stopped his watch as the last portal to the sewer opened. His unsuspecting visitor would find the floor tilting away under them, and slide down into the wet and foul smelling darkness.

"That will teach you to interfere with Erik." He snapped the cover of his watch closed, gathered up his tools and whistled as he made his way back to his home.

* * *

Mirielle hurried through the door of her building as one of her neighbors held it open for her. Stopping just inside she closed her umbrella. Icy drops of rain dripped off of her hat and down her neck causing her to shiver.

It had snowed the previous evening, a gentle white blanket that muffled the sounds of Paris. Today, the snow had turned to rain. The mixture of warm air and rain had turned the pretty snow into dark, soot streaked piles along the gutters where the rain raced to push it into the sewers.

Hurrying upstairs, she contemplated a hot bath and an early evening. It wouldn't do catching a chill now that she had found a job.

She'd chatted with the Aubriot's at the dress shop. When they realized she had been fired, the husband had immediately offered her a job in one of his shops.

Opening her door, she sat her umbrella on a spot on the kitchen tile where it would be out of the way and shrugged off her coat. As she sat on the tiny sofa and reached for her dripping shoe, she saw a note standing propped on a large box. When she read the name on the note, her heart accelerated.

The box was filled with chocolates. The note contained one sentence. _Will you forgive an old fool and consent to dinner once more?_

Her room mates found her with her feet propped up on the low table before the sofa, sighing contentedly as she popped a chocolate into her mouth.

* * *

Waiting inside the door, she stepped out onto the sidewalk as the driver opened the coach door. Thanking him, she gathered her skirt and stepped inside. A gloved hand grasped hers as she settled herself on the seat.

"Good Evening, Madame." Erik's smooth masculine voice greeted her.

She smiled despite the dim interior. "Good Evening, Monsieur."

"Erik," he reminded her.

"Mirielle," she teased.

From under the brim of his hat, amber irises flashed in response to the street lamps. "I though we would return to the _Chartier_ for dinner."

She watched his face, or rather, his mask in the dark for another glimpse of those eyes. Sitting with her hands crossed over her bag, she noticed the warmth of his leg close to hers as they faced each other on the seats. That had not happened on their first trip to the restaurant.

Erik sat mystified by her smug, small smile. Would those teasing lips be as soft as he remembered? Her tantalizing fragrance was already weaving its spell. Would her skin taste like it smelled? Blinking rapidly, he cleared his throat. "How have you been?"

"I've been well. I have a new job now."

He could feel the tension rise in his body. "I understand from de Brie that interfering ass La Chance cost you your employment."

The silken menace in his voice made her shiver. "I like my new job better actually. Perhaps I should thank the boy for forcing me to leave the mill behind. It was so dreadfully noisy there." The sound of the increasing tempo of the rain beat on the coach's roof. "Oh my, I think we will get wet."

As the coach pulled to a stop, Erik slid open the door and leaped to the pavement. Swinging one side of his cape upward in a graceful arc, he reached for Mirielle's hand and held his cape over her until they reached the restaurant door.

When their coach pulled away from the curb, a cab parked across the street. Erik heard the approach of the wheels, and the silence after it ceased moving. As he did not hear the door, he assumed the driver had pulled over hoping for a fare.

The staff came out to show them to their table and assist Mirielle out of her coat. Handing his wet cape over to a young man who ventured closer, he stood breathless as Mirielle turned to him. Her dress was a deep maroon which set off the light cream color of bare shoulders, her neck, and a glimpse at her décolletage.

Her eyes searched his mask, an unasked question. He cleared his throat again. "You look well." She flashed a smile at him and he stepped forward to seat her. _You look well_. _You addlepated idiot, why did you say that?_

Looking down he watched the flicker of a candle's light move over the smooth curve of her cheek and across her shoulder. Oh, to be light, to be water. To move-to glide skin to skin.

The door from the back of the restaurant swung open, disgorging the Maitre d' and his assistants. Erik went to his chair and waited for the presentation of the menu. Mirielle sat with shinning eyes and glanced at him at the end of the presentation.

"Would you like me to order again, my dear?"

She nodded. Her dark hair was upswept atop her head and a cluster of some gems flashed at the base of a small dark feather that graced her hair.

He ordered Steak Au Poivre with Onion Soup Au Gratin to start, hoping the soup would warm Mirielle. Chatting between the courses that appeared before them, he took advantage of the servers being out of earshot. "You look splendid tonight."

She took a sip of her wine. He was using that smooth tone of voice again. The tone that felt as if he were touching her somehow; leaving a tingling feeling to roll over her skin. "Thank you, dear man." She rested a hand on the table as she regarded him.

He was still basking in her endearment when something brushed his shin under the table. She most have accidentally bumped him. He pushed back a little in his chair, and reached for his steak knife. "You've done something with your hair," he began.

"Do you like it?"

He gave a small shrug. "Of course." He added, "I like the way you wore it during _Carmen_ as well." He chastised himself again. He hadn't wanted to bring up that evening.

One of the staff came through the room, glancing at their basket of rolls. Erik reached for his wine and felt something brush over the top of his foot, push up under the cuff of his trousers and rest against his shin. He sat his glass down with exaggerated care and took up his cutlery once more. What he wanted to do was push away from the table and lift the cloth. He could feel her toes. A startling surge of warmth infused his cheeks. A moment later a simmering heat began to rise in an area of his anatomy that was a lot farther down.

He shifted in his chair, and Mirielle's foot slid away. The saucy creature had the audacity to pout. His knife slid past his folk and skewered one of the potatoes on his plate. When he gave the knife a quick shake to drop the vegetable, it broke into pieces and the knife hit the edge of the plate with a resounding clink.

Mirielle was just about to sip her wine, and sputtered into her glass as she heard the commotion across the table. Grabbing up her napkin she made a show of wiping her lips which appeared to Erik to be twisted in a grin.

Watching Erik across the table, Mirielle batted her eyes and did her best to appear demure. His golden eyes narrowed as he watched her rather than his knife which had just brushed a green bean onto the pristine surface of the tablecloth.

Reaching for the wine bottle to occupy his hands, he dragged his cuff through the cognac laced sauce from the steak. Mirielle glanced at his cuff, and he was going to snatch up his napkin from his lap, but the Matre d' chose that precise moment to return to the dining room.

Erik sat mortified over the prospect of removing the napkin, revealing the evidence of his most ungentlemanly state. He dropped his wrist into his lap and attempted to wipe off the sauce instead.

Mirielle saw Erik drop his arm. He appeared to be rubbing quite briskly at something out of her view. She busily went to work on the remainder of her steak while she clasped her lip between her teeth to keep from giggling.

* * *

Stepping into the alley behind the restaurant, Hughes Duchesne prepared to dump the garbage when a man slid out of the shadows. Well dressed, with a bowler hat, the man flashed a five franc note at him.

La Chance nodded towards the back door. "Get me in," he said.

Duchesne looked at the door, at the note, and at the man. With a brisk shake of his head he backed towards the door.

"Come on," La Chance ground out. Digging in his pocket he added another pair of notes.

Duchesne shook his head even harder and drew back from the man. When he backed into the door handle, he gave it a quick twist and attempted to slide inside without allowing the man in the bowler to push through.

Getting his foot between the waiter's, La Chance shoved his leg inside the restaurant and gave the boy a shove backwards. Sliding from the water that dripped from his shoes, La Chance stuffed his money back into his pocket with a satisfied grin. He turned, his nose meeting with a very hard set of knuckles.


	16. Dinner Dilemma

**Part Fifteen: Dinner Dilemma**

Head snapping backwards, La chance slid over the waiter who was getting up. Arms wind milling; he grabbed onto the door jamb and righted himself. Reaching to staunch the flow of what must be blood from his nostril, he felt someone's hands grab hold of his coat and lift him upwards. A fierce set of dark eyes glowered at him.

"What are you doing skulking around the alley?" Lips twisted in a sneer, the owner of the eyes gave him a brisk shake. "Speak up, or I'll toss you out on your ear!"

"My pocket," La Chance told him. "My card is in my pocket."

A man in the white coat of a chef appeared over the other man's shoulder. "Toss him out, Lambert. I don't want our guests disturbed."

"I'm a reporter," La Chance hastily added. "My card's in my pocket. I report for _The Echo."_

The young man from the alley had traveled around him to join the chef. "He tried to bribe me to get him in, Monsieur Provencher."

The chef looked down his sizable nose at La Chance. "Good man, Duchesne. Defending our establishment." He lifted an eyebrow. "Go out with Monsieur La Duc and check our guests.

Hughes Duchesne bobbed his head and slid on his white coat, waiting for the other waiter to drop the reporter. La Duc indicated the door to the dining room, turning with the boy in his wake.

* * *

Mirielle crossed her knife and fork over her plate and blotted the corner of her lips with her napkin. The Maître d' hovered by the table a moment, waiting until the couple turned his way. "I am terribly sorry to disturb you Monsieur. But it appears that a man, a reporter, has been found in our alley attempting to bribe one of our workers."

Erik's head swung towards the boy who stood at attention behind his Maître d'. "What name did he give?" The menace in his voice made both men stand straighter.

"La Chance, Monsieur. He claims he works for _The Echo_."

Monsieur No Chance's escapade had worked better than a flood of cold water on Erik's dilemma. Rising to his feet he whipped the napkin off and flung it down on the table, turning towards the kitchen door.

Mirielle had straightened in her chair as well. She leaped to her feet, struggling with the table cloth and her skirt as she hurried to intercept Erik. The man had a penchant for disappearing in the middle of their evenings and she didn't plan on having him evaporate again before her eyes.

A hand landed on his arm and he turned to shrug it off, seeing it was Mirielle he stopped.

"No, dear man," Mirielle said gently. "Send the boy on his way and let's finish our evening in peace."

Despite his hammering pulse, Erik heard the emphasis she put on the word _peace_. He nodded to the Maître d' who withdrew with the younger man to inform the staff.

Mirielle stood close to him, a soothing presence. Her fingers relaxed from his arm, and she dropped her hands. One found its way to slide down to his. Opening his tensed fingers, she eased her hand into his. She took a step towards the table.

Erik held her hand so that she could not leave him. "I fear your evening is ruined, my dear," he apologized.

She turned and looked up at him through her dark lashes. "Not at all. Dinner was lovely, and my companion was entertaining." Lifting his hand she turned his wrist up and glanced at the cuff.

"Clumsy of me," he muttered.

"If I had known a little flirting would affect you that way, I should have told the waiter to bring you more napkins," she replied.

He felt as if he could burst. "You outrageous little rogue," his voice a deep masculine purr as his mouth sought hers.

* * *

In the kitchen, it took two men to bundle up La chance and shove him out into the alley. Glowering at the door as it slammed, he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Shaking it out, he twisted it and gingerly shoved it up one nostril to staunch the blood. With a groan he made his way back through the puddles and around the building to the cab that was waiting for him.

Reaching for the door, the driver leaned over and barred it with his whip. "You're money's up."

La chance bristled. "That's extortion!"

"Take it or leave it, Monsieur. It's getting late and I work for a living."

Fumbling for his wallet, he withdrew ten francs and handed it to the man. He hadn't realized as he climbed into the cab that an evening spent chasing a ghost would be so draining to he finances.

The Maître d' swept open the door to the dining room. The couple were standing beside the table, and were… He spun quickly on his heel and quietly pushed his way back into the kitchen, nearly bowling over Duchesne. "Wait a moment," he told the boy.

The chef worried at a cloth in his hands. "Are they upset?"

The Maître d' shook his head vigorously and grinned. "I don't think so." He laid a hand on the door and peeked out the small window in it. Rolling his eyes, he smirked. "He's kissing her!"

A chorus of congratulatory male murmurs filled the kitchen. The chef looked as pleased as a proud father. "Wine! Let's get some more wine!"

Duchesne looked confused. "Should I go clear the table?"

The Maître d' looked at the boy. "You are obviously too young to understand what a hard time that fellow must have getting along with the fairer sex."

Duchesne blushed furiously to the roots of his dark hair. "Oh." He blinked thoughtfully and repeated, "Oh."

"Have a seat Hughes," the chef told him offering him a glass of wine.

* * *

As he pulled back from the kiss at last, he heard her sigh. He could not recall ever hearing anything in his lifetime as telling as her soft exhalation.

His hands slid around her, gripping her tighter. Hers slid up his lapels, one occasionally teasing his neck. Returning to her lips, he wanted to stay like this forever. It was all that he had ever hope it could be and more. And Mirielle gave no indication that she wanted it to stop either.

Through the haze of passion, he felt her hand slide upward towards his face. Breaking away from her, he caught her hand. "No."

Her eyes opened slowly. His eyes were lost inside the dark mask, but she could feel the tension in his coiled body. Shaking her head she agreed, "No." She lowered her arms and ran them around his waist. Turning her face upwards she waited.

His hands swept up her neck, stoked her lips with his thumbs. A dozen thoughts flitted through his mind, all drawn back to Mirielle. He dropped his head again to kiss her, diving into the soft pleasure her mouth offered.

She felt all a tingle. He had wonderful hands. And my, but the man was making her breathless with his slow moving tongue. They were both breathy when he ended the kiss again.

"Do you want a dessert?" He still held her close

"No. Do you?" She replied in a husky voice.

He did. A picture flitted through his mind of her lathered in soft peaks of cream with luscious red cherries peaking out from strategic spots.

She grinned. "I thought you liked the tart, not the sweet."

He ran a finger down her cheek. "Mysterious girl," he teased. "Are you insinuating my lady friend is a tart?"

She gave a small gasp. "Never. You said she was outrageous."

"Ah, yes I did. She seemed to like that."

"Kiss her," she leaned forward. "She likes that, too."

* * *

In the kitchen the staff debated.

"Make a lot of noise, and then go out," the chef voted.

"I could go out," Hughes ventured.

He was voted down with a lot of head shaking. "No. I'm the Maître d', I should go."

Jumping down from the counter top, he and the chef stated banging a few pots. Slowly, he stretched out a hand and pushed open the door.

La Chance started as he heard the whip once again tap the door. He must have dozed off. Pushing aside the window, he lifted another franc note to the driver and settled back into the seat.

How long were they going to stay in the restaurant?

* * *

Hearing the noises in the kitchen, Erik turned Mirielle and guided her to her chair.

The Maître d' came out and bowed. "Would you care.."

"No," both of his guests chorused. "Splendid dinner" and "Give the chef our compliments" accompanied their hurried movements towards their coats.

"I'll bring you the bill," he told them and sprinted towards the kitchen. Snatching up a tray and a pen, he proceeded back to the table and stood by as the gentleman signed the bill.

The staff filed out, bidding them a good evening and Mirielle could not help but notice the grins on their faces and the wine on their breath. Goodness! Had she and Erik been kissing that long?

Taking a look outside, Erik saw the same cab sitting across the street. He turned to question the staff, "Where does your back alley lead?"

The chef spoke first, "The Rue Daunton."

"Very good," Erik replied smoothly. He reached under his cape and pulled out a few franc notes. "I need someone to send the coach on its way."

Mirielle blinked in surprise as he grasped her hand. "You wouldn't mind going for a walk, would you my dear?"

She glanced out of the door. "You think Monsieur Fat Chance is waiting for us?"

"Fat Chance?" He started chuckling. "A more likely name would be the one I christened him with. Monsieur No Chance."

Mirielle smiled. Her evenings with this man were never dull.


	17. Life In Shadow

**Thanks Reviewers...things are heating up. **

**Part Sixteen: Life in Shadow**

Erik ushered Mirielle through the door to the kitchen, followed by the staff. "Do you have a lantern I could borrow?" Erik asked. One of the waiters hurried to a cupboard and brought out a dingy glass lantern. Thanking the young man, Erik led Mirielle out the back door.

Rain fell, slanting between the buildings the framed the alley. Mirielle gathered the bottom of her skirt around her calves and hitched it up. Her other hand hung on to Erik's as he guided her around puddles and uneven blocks of the pavement.

Stopping at the mouth of the alley, he glanced back towards the front of the restaurant. Hearing no tell tale sounds of the cab that La Chance sat in, he turned up the street. Taller than her by more than a head, he narrowed his stride so that she would not have to hurry to keep abreast of him.

At the end of an intersection of streets, Erik led Mirielle towards a gate that set in deeper darkness in a niche between two buildings. A match flared, bringing the little glass lantern to life. She watched as Erik knelt before a substantial looking padlock on the gate. With a few quick motions, he yanked on the lock, and flipped it open, releasing the gate to swing with a sharp metal squeal.

Mirielle stepped into the quiet darkness, her eyes adjusting to the glow given off by the lamp. "Where are we going?"

Erik turned towards her, his eyes flashed in the lamplight. "Down to the empire of the dead," he replied.

A twisting stair led downward. Mirielle followed the glow of the lamp and the movement of the immense shadow it threw on the wall as Erik descended. Walking carefully, she listened to the sound of her petticoats rustling in the silence around them. Once again, Erik seemed to make no noise at all. Perhaps, she thought, he really was a ghost.

Turn after turn, the steps led them deeper. When they finally came to a level floor, Mirielle looked up at a vaulted ceiling. "We are now 82 steps below Paris." Erik's voice was quiet. "This is part of the limestone quarry from the Roman times."

Mirielle held her breath. "The catacombs?"

Erik regarded her, his strange eyes lost in the dark shape of the mask. His hand still held hers, fingers flexing a gentle caress. "Not here." He led her to an intersection of halls. Lifting the lantern he paused. "That way is south, away from the river. The denizens of Paris who now spend eternity together are that way."

In the glow of the lamp, she could only see a few feet away. The halls marched off into a dark infinity. "It's so quiet here."

His voice changed, she could hear him smile. "Paris resides on a layer of 400 meters of chalk. What remains of it will absorb all of the sound. You could bring the orchestra from the Garnier down here, and all of their music would disappear in this very room."

She glanced around. "I had not thought it would be dry down here."

"The sewers were designed to carry off the water from the streets. At this level, we are incased in the rock. It is always dry and warm in this section." He turned in a circle showing her the room.

She saw something carved on a blank space, "What is that?"

He shone the lamp on the words for her. "That tells what street intersection you are below. They are also dated from the time that the sewers and catacombs were mapped."

"There is a map for this?"

He nodded slowly. "Of a sort. There are many tunnels still not discovered. There are 300 kilometers of mine corridors here." His voice wrapped her in warmth. "I brought you down here to keep you out of that freezing rain. We'll make our way to the Passage Landrieu and go back up to the Pont De L'Alma to get a cab back over the river."

"Could we go see the bones? I've heard stories about them at the church."

"Of course, my dear." They began the journey through the quiet darkness.

Corridor after corridor, Erik walked on unerringly. Mirielle listened to him as he pointed out plaques and crude fountains and told her about the history of the underground. He raised the lantern, the light pushing the shadows into etched letters that said: _Stop! This is the empire_ _of death!_

Stepping inside another room, they were surrounded by tightly stacked bones. Here and there a pattern emerged, underlining a cross formation of skulls. Progressing upwards on the bones were the numbers of consecutive years painted on the ends of leg bones.

"They started in 1785. Every night for 15 months, the dead from La Halles were brought here. After that, the other major cemeteries were emptied. There are nearly six million people resting here."

"Six million? It's hard to believe there were ever that many people," Mirielle replied in a hushed voice.

Erik gave a low chuckle. "Paris still has too many people, in the ground or above it. The city is slowly being poisoned by the filth that accumulates here."

She considered him as he looked about the chamber. "Why do you live here then?"

He walked over to a wall. "I took a job here. I built a house and stayed when my work was done. Why are you here?"

Memories flashed in Mirielle's mind. Her husband smiling, the children getting married, and her standing by the grave as she said a final farewell the day she caught the train to come to Paris. "My children are grown, having babies of their own and I had no where else to go. I knew I could find a job here, so I sold what I had and came to the city."

"Would you not rather stay close to your family?" Erik's voice held a wistful sadness.

"Do not mistake what I'm saying. I love my children and my grandchild. But this is my time. The time I have left. And I don't want to spend it being a burden to them. I want to live on my own, go places, meet people. Hold hands with someone."

Mirielle cocked her head. "Listen." She released his hand and stepped towards a row of the skulls, their bony faces revealing nothing. "Do you hear what they are saying?"

"What words would they have?"

She smiled; her eyes looked bright in the glow of the lantern. "They are saying that death comes too soon. That the living should take what joy they can find."

"You make it sound so simple," his voice was slightly breathy.

"It is, dear man. If you let it be." She reached for his arm.

"Mirielle, I have not been a good person. My life is…was"

She held up a finger before his lips. "Never go back, Erik. There is only here and now, and the arrogant hope that tomorrow will come."

As much as he wanted to believe it, he had to warn her, "You don't know me or what I have done."

"No. I don't," she admitted. "But I'm here to learn about this man," she laid her palm against his chest. "Inside here is the man who took me to dinner, and to the Opera. We walked through the dark and we rode a horse and he gave me a rose. And he got sauce on his cuff." She glanced down with a smile.

Erik took her arm, "Come, Madame. We should go up before our lamp runs out of oil. You do not want to meet this man in the darkness."

"Mayhap that was what I was hoping for."

He was having a hard time breathing now. His eyes riveted on her and she tsked. "Oh. I've shocked you haven't I?"

"No." Yes. A bolt of lightening blasting its way four stories under Paris could not have shocked him more deeply.

A slow smile turned her lips. "Yes I have." She gave a small laugh. "You're a man and I'm a woman. I thought we could dispense with these awkward attempts at getting to know one another and just be forthright."

"Mirielle," he tried again. "Do not believe for one moment that I am not," he paused. What? Flattered? Flustered? About to faint?

"Erik. I was still young when I matured." She held her hands in front of her. He knew exactly what part of her must have bloomed first. "I was 14 when I climbed into a hay loft and had my first experience with what I thought was love. I learned quickly that my heart was not what the young men were interested in." She raised a hand in a vague wave. "There should be no embarrassment between us."

When he said nothing, Mirielle began to experience the awkward feeling she had hoped to escape. He must still be in love with that young woman.

"You don't see," he told her. It was more than true. Not just his countenance, but the things it had driven him to; the torture, the assassinations. The most reprehensible had been his attempt to hide behind Christine's hopes and woo her as an angel sent by her father. The other actions were based on survival. Christine was only his desperate attempt at love.

"Mademoiselle Daaé must have been a rare jewel if she was the only one who would look beyond your mask." She caught the simmering gold glance. His rigid posture made her realize what a stupid mistake she'd made this evening. Biting down on her lip, she would not further shame herself. "Perhaps we should go," she said softly.

He gestured towards another hall, and she brushed passed him in the glow of the lantern. As they continued on through the shadows, she stretched out a hand and ran her fingers over the tufaceous rock. The sensation of it abrading her skin distracted her thoughts from those glowing golden eyes that must be burning into her from behind. His silence was more excoriating than if he had berated her for her whorish behavior.

Erik stopped her progress, taking hold of her elbow and turning her towards a ramp that spiraled upward, turning into rugged steps. He held the lantern up over her shoulder, staying behind her to offer her a steadying hand if her footsteps faltered.

He argued with himself every step of the way.

When they reached the top of the stairs she stepped aside to allow him to push open the door. He extinguished the lamp, turning to look at her, his fingers brushed her face.

Erik's body pushed her up against the wall. His hand stole behind her neck to hold her while he plundered her mouth with this tongue. A languid fire stirred in her body as her breath became shallower. He relented and eased her away from the wall, his other hand dropping to her derriere to press her into his body as his lips hovered lightly above her own.

"Mysterious girl." His voice matched the darkness around them, enveloping, promising. His breath raced over her skin like fire, down her neck, his lips inched down to her collar bone. Burying his face in her neck he nipped at her ear lobe, felt her soft moan and the heartbeat in her throat. It drummed the rhythm of life, as alive as he had ever hoped to be.

She held on to him, her hands fisted in the front of his coat. He found his way back to her lips and she almost cried out as a hand moved upward over her ribs to circle slowly over her breast. She did gasp, her head falling backwards, he held her a moment and she knew beyond any shadow of doubt that he was no ghost. He was a very solid man.

He caught her lower lip and worried it tenderly with his teeth. His hands caught her head and he rested his forehead against hers. His voice turned rough. "I want you."

Mirielle shivered. Every nerve ending in her body leaped in response to that consuming voice.

He moved away from her. There was a scraping noise and the door swung open, he bent to retrieve the lantern. She was pulled along as he led her up through what must have been a cellar for a tavern. He pushed open another door and startled faces flashed by as they hurried out of the main door.

A cab appeared, and she climbed inside. He followed her, pulling her towards him, she was settled onto his lap a brief second before the cab began to move. She ran her hand up his lapel and rested it against his neck. No higher, she remembered.

Rather than kissing her, he ran his fingertips lightly over her face. Following the arch of her brow, then down her cheek to follow the curve of her jaw into her hair.

As the cab stopped, he gave her a quick kiss, and shifted her back onto the seat. Getting out, he handed the driver several franc notes and helped Mirielle out of the cab. As it pulled away, he led her to the gate on the Rue Scribe side of the Garnier.


	18. Ghost No Longer

**A/N: ** I left you with an evil cliffie, so here is a little update. This first scene flirts with a Mature rating. If you wish to leave things to your imagination, please skip to the first break between sections of the story. Otherwise, sigh softly and grin.

**Part Seventeen: Ghost No Longer**

She followed him downward this time. They passed through a room with arches of staircases that zigzagged downward to an area with a circle of pillars. The ceiling had been elaborately vaulted, small gas lights hung from the central brick pillar.

Reaching what looked like a dead end, he pushed on a brick and an opening appeared in the wall. Into the darkness once again he led her. Through doors and arches, they walked until they went down a set of stairs to a low vaulted room. Before her in the darkness stretched a body of water.

Erik stepped down in to a small boat, offering her a hand. Stepping gingerly and hanging on to her skirt, Mirielle settled on a low seat as Erik took a long pole up off of the quay they had left and began to push the boat through the water.

At even spaces along one wall the bricks sloped. "Are those drains from the streets above?" She asked, pointing them out.

"No. The water here is from a spring that joins the Seine. Those openings along the wall were put there when the Garnier was built. A double wall was created to collect all of the water in and send it on its way out from under the building. Those drains helped to route it all into this channel. If you look up, you can see the light from the streets above."

There were four spots along the ceiling that they passed beneath. From the small rectangle above her she did perceive the faint light.

Erik guided the boat onward. Rounding a corner, he pulled the boat to a shore of loose gravel. Helping her out, he led her across to a walkway, and then to a wall that loomed out of the darkness. Propelling her forward by the shoulders, he spoke. "Welcome to my home."

Lights glowed softly, dispelling the darkness and Mirielle gaped at the building in front of her. A stone façade dotted with windows faced the lake they had just left. She tuned to Erik, who took her arm and escorted her to a doorway.

She saw carpet and chairs, a fireplace, dark cherry tables, and shelves of books. And Erik. He stood expectantly beside her. She started undoing the closings on her coat as he removed his cape and hat. She tossed her coat at a nearby chair and kicked off her shoes in time to step into his arms.

He kissed her again. This time she pushed her hands up under his coat and slid it over his shoulders. He shrugged it off and her hands went to his waist, tugging his shirt out of his trousers. Her hair fell onto her shoulders as he pulled out the pins. He laced his fingers through it and tipped her head backwards.

"Mirielle," he breathed against her throat. "I've never been with a woman."

She blinked in surprise. "Never?"

The golden eyes held hers. She raised a hand and let it hover just over his face. "Because of this?" She let her hand drop to his chest again, move over him, and go to his cravat. "Tonight should be very educational for you," she promised.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the room. She turned her face to his neck and held on, breathing in his subtle cologne. He stood her on her feet, a door at her back. It swung open and she stepped backwards, pulling his cravat off. Glancing aside, she saw an antique dresser and tossed the tie at it.

Erik ran fingers down the back of her dress, releasing the material to glide slowly down her body as it opened. Her fingers flew over his vest and shirt. The soft pads of her fingertips roamed over his chest, he sucked in a breath as she turned her nails against his ribs and stroked downward.

She leaned backwards and let the shoulder of her dress drop from her arms. He grasped her waist, encased in a half corset, the closings at the front; he looked down at the stiff object that ended just under her breasts which filled the light material of her chemise.

Mirielle ran her fingers along the band at the top of his trousers, up over his muscled stomach and traced the hard muscles of his chest. His body seemed angular, his movements lithe. Despite his age, he had not run to fat the way most men would. He leaned into her, his mouth fastening on hers again. His tongue moving suggestively as his fingers undid her corset. With a hand, she tugged at the ties that held the bustle pad and the top of her petticoats.

Erik let the corset drop. Running his hands down her body, he pushed the petticoats to her feet. With reverent hands he traced the smooth, warm flesh of her thighs as he rose to stand before her. The little chemise and her drawers were all that covered her now. In the faint glow of the gaslight, her eyes turned dark as a bottomless lake, the gloss of her night dark hair like the wing of a raven. "You are beautiful," he whispered.

She was lovely in her blue velvet and her red satin, but her ivory flesh was the most beautiful thing Erik had ever seen. Passion turned her from a woman to a goddess, and he wondered what madness made him believe Christine's voice and her chaste kiss was the pinnacle of his life. Standing before Mirielle he felt a rude, coarse creature that did not deserve to even look at her, let alone touch her.

Her hands lifted to his neck. She stretched upwards on her toes and slid her tongue over his bottom lip.

"Mirielle, I may not be able to…" he faltered over the words.

"Mmm," she moaned against his mouth. "Dear man. You can make it up to me later."

The remainder of their clothing was quickly dispatched. She slid onto the cool, crisp sheets as he yanked the cover and blankets away. Mouth to mouth and skin to skin, Erik caressed her until he could feel her quiver. With a rhythm born of instinct, he made love to her.

A woman gave a man everything he had ever desired.

* * *

Erik had slid his arm under Mirielle's neck as she slept, so when she pushed herself up on an elbow, he instantly came awake. 

"Water closet?" She asked.

As she sat up, he sat up with her and pushed past her on the edge of the bed. Snatching up his discarded shirt he hung it over her shoulders and guided her down the hall. Turning on the light for her, he pulled the door closed and padded down the hall to his bedroom to retrieve his robe.

He glanced at the mantel clock; they'd fallen asleep nearly two hours ago. He sat on the arm of one of the leather chairs and pondered her shoes, lying discarded upon the rug. The door opened and she stepped into the hallway. She'd pulled his shirt on and held it together in a hand in front of her.

He rejoined her, guiding her back to the bed. She sank sleepily back into the position she lay in. He prepared to turn the gas lights out, when he looked at the pile of discarded clothing.

A hole opened up inside him. He hadn't put anything on. Nothing. Her pleasure and his had been paramount, but that paled in light dawning in his mind. He might be a father.

He spent the rest of the night in a chair with a glass of Brandy and his thoughts.

* * *

La Chance pushed gingerly at his nose and sucked in his breath. Shaving carefully, he toweled off his face and went to get dressed.

"Mathurin, you overslept. You were supposed to be at the train station."

He exhaled and leaned his head out of his bedroom door. "I'll only be ten minutes late, Mother."

She sat in a day dress, her cane unobtrusively tucked along a fold of her skirt. "Well, your Uncle hasn't been to the apartment before, so he will have to wait upon you."

He bent to place a kiss on her cheek. "I'll be right back. We'll bring you some fresh cream cakes?"

His Mother smiled. "Thank you, son."

It would give him an excuse to forestall bringing his Uncle to the apartment. He was ready for the remonstration delivered with pious indignity that his Mother would have to suffer. It wasn't her fault she fell ill before his Father died, leaving the two of them to sell off their home to keep them out of debtors court.

None of it was Father's fault. The shame of their drop in social status would be blamed on her. He himself was working as hard as he knew how to provide for her. His Father hadn't prepared him for that either, but of course, Father wasn't at fault.

* * *

Erik trod down the hall, carrying a steaming cup of tea, with the trepidation of a man approaching the guillotine. 

Placing the cup and saucer by the bed, he turned up one of the lamps. Mirielle blinked sleepily at him and sat up. He'd brought the sheet up over her as he climbed out of the bed. "I've brought you some tea," he spoke softly.

She pushed herself up higher in the bed. The sheet at her waist, the shirt hugged her body. She looked like a happy woman.

Mirielle made no move towards the tea. She reached a hand towards Erik instead. "What is it?" He stood very tall and unyielding. She had the terrible feeling he was going to tell her to get dressed and leave. His remote posture told the story of an angry man.

"What is it?" She repeated, dropping her hand to the shirt, demurely tugging it closed.

His lips formed a hard straight line at the edge of his mask. "I'm sorry."

She felt a weight settle in her stomach. "Why?"

He took a deep breath, "I didn't use anything." He made an odd open handed gesture. "I didn't take any precautions."

Mirielle blinked in surprise. "Oh, darling man. You don't need to. I haven't gotten pregnant since my last child." He still towered over her in a dark robe that brushed the tops of his feet. "I'm sorry; I should have told you before."

"I should have asked anyway," he added gruffly.

"Um, we were rather preoccupied." It was the sort of insipid response she would have chastised her children for.

"That's no excuse." His eyes were faint circles in the darkness of his mask.

"Believe me, I have raised my children. I would take no chances on having more. I would have told you if we needed a preventative." He still stood staring down at her. Was is remorse or was it anger at her? She'd not been with him long enough to sort out his moods. "I'm sorry."

The weight in her stomach now began to move, a mass of things that crawled their way up her throat, threatening to make her ill. There was another possible reason he was so angry. "I'm not here to trick you into anything."

His head turned. It swung the other way slowly, a negative response. "No, Mirielle. There would never be children." He turned and left her.

"Damn it," she groused. Flinging the sheet aside, she nearly tripped in her haste to catch up with him. She flew down the hall behind him and grabbed fistfuls of the back of his robe, planting her heels on the rug and giving him a tug for all she was worth. He rounded on her, his eyes gleaming motes in the dim light.

"Not this time," she said through tight lips. "You always do this to me. You walk away and leave me to wonder what I did, what I said that makes you turn away."

She raised a hand and dropped it. She felt certain as he stood in that unearthly stillness that he would not answer her. She blew out a breath and hitched her thumb towards her chest. "I'm leaving!"

Turning on her heel she went back down the hall and found the knob to turn up the gas light. Snatching up her garments she went back to the water closet and tossed them inside the door. Pushing past him, she gathered her shoes and stomped back down the hall.

She wasn't going anywhere. "Oh this is priceless," he said sarcastically. "It's my home," he gestured expansively, "how are you going to get back?" He half turned and flung up a hand in time to intercept a shoe. The door to the water closet slammed hard enough to rattle the picture above the mantel.

He felt his fingernails dig into his palms. "You…" He raised a fist and shook it at the door. "You little…" The door burst open and his shirt was flung upward to float to the floor of the hall.

Erik stalked down the hall, bending to snatch up the shirt. Straightening before the door he paused. She wasn't making any sound. "Mirielle?"

The only sound was his breathing and the distant tick of the mantel clock. What if she'd done something to herself? "Mirielle?" He rested fingertips against the door.

His robe fluttered in the vacuum left behind as the door swung open. The other shoe connected with his chest as he caught at it, his shirt tangling around the heel. Biting down on his lips he faced the closed door again. "Virago."

"I heard that!"

The muffled sound of her voice through the door sounded like she said 'arrogant man'.

He snorted. "That wasn't what you said last night while you were flat on your…"

A sound came from behind the door that made him cringe. She'd turned into a banshee.


	19. Comes The Dawn

**Part Eighteen: Comes The Dawn**

Erik hovered before the door. "Dearest girl are you all right?"

"Go away," she replied haughtily. Reaching behind her back, she couldn't do the closings on her dress. Glancing at her tousled hair and the circles below her eyes in the mirror she let out a strangled noise. Hopping up and down, she stretched to grab the closings and missed.

This would never do. She couldn't hold her dress together and row across the lake. She looked down at her body. She'd turn the dress backwards and fasten her coat over her. No one would be the wiser; unless she was run down by a rampaging horse and a Doctor happened by.

She cleared her throat. "Erik? Can you bring me my coat?" she asked reasonably.

His brows would have drawn downward if he had any to speak of. She really was planning on leaving. "Your tea is getting cold, dear girl. Wouldn't you rather stay and have breakfast?" He gestured towards his kitchen.

The door opened at a stately pace, a hand appeared, gracefully awaiting the article she asked for. He was a man; he could yank her out of the water closet and make her talk to him. But then, he had heard a noise come from her that would cause many people to cross themselves in appeal for divine intervention. He pondered the enigma of her anger as he went to retrieve her coat.

Mirielle tired of waving her hand and hauled open the door. The imperious oaf was probably pouting in the other room. She'd get her own coat. She tripped over one of her shoes coming out of the door and mumbled a phrase that her Mother would have disapproved of.

Reaching the living room, she made a dash for her coat. Stuffing an arm in it, she turned to see the mantle clock. "Four o'clock?" Was that morning or night? Wouldn't it always be dark here in the Opera's underworld?

He watched her fight with the sleeve of her coat. "What are you doing?" He pointed at her dress. "You've put it on …" Good Lord. She must have put it on backwards. Did women get so angry they lost their sense of propriety?

"You can't walk out of here like that," he thundered. "No…woman of mine is going to make a spectacle of herself!"

She made a disgusted face. "Goodness, you sound positively feudal! Next you'll call me your 'concubine'."

"I would be more of a mind to say 'courtesan'," he mumbled. Mirielle's brows arched upwards.

He cast around for something else to say. "Odalisque?" Oh yes. The thought made him feel a familiar stirring. She'd look ravishing in one of those flimsy bits that those nubile Persian girls would jiggle by in. The though of those voluptuous curves of hers in those little trousers!

Now her brows had lowered. She'd finished buttoning up her coat. Erik noticed a staccato rhythm in the room. It was her foot.

"Why did you wake me at four in the morning?" Mirielle asked in a smooth voice.

"I was worried for you." He locked his hands behind his back. He positively exuded masculine indignation.

"What?" Her brows went up again. If this continued she might forever wear a look of surprise.

"I was worried for you," he groused. Had she lost her hearing as well?

"A more apt answer would have been like any man you've come to your senses after doing the deed and are worried over the consequences."

Erik took in a gulp of air. "I am not! I didn't want you pregnant. I didn't want you to suffer an ugly child."

Her anger ebbed as she took in his slightly bowed head. "I'd have done the proper thing by you," he finished.

How many times had it come down to what was behind the mask? Instead of pillow talk he'd surprised told her he'd never been with a woman. Was he worried he'd not perform adequately for her? Had he remained a virgin because of his face, or his fear of fathering something just as ugly?

"Erik, does your Mother have a nose?" His darkly swathed head moved slightly. "And your Father? Did anyone else in your family lack one?" She gave him a moment to find the trail she was blazing. "What makes you think a child of yours would be the same as you?"

"It's a chance I would not take," he finally replied.

"But you assumed I would?" In a way, his answer still irritated her. "What did I do? Lose my mind in a moment of passion? I know you say you are ugly. Could you be that ugly if I was attracted to you?" She crossed her arms under her breasts.

"Is that a question?" he hedged. He'd finally got her calmed down, but she was female. Who knew what might anger her next.

Her head tilted, and her eyes narrowed. She seemed to consider his question but shook her head.

Mirielle didn't tell him to answer the question. After all, he was a man. He'd only get indignant over something. And he did start the argument because he was worried for her in his own stunted vision. "You could have waited until I woke up."

The golden eyes rolled around the room. "Do you wish to go back to bed?"

He sounded hopeful. She ran a hand through her hair. "No. I'll just have some tea. You should take me home before people stir."

"You, ah, you should fix your dress. Would you like me to do it up for you?"

"After I have my tea, please."

Erik went back to retrieve the cup and saucer. Carrying it back to the kitchen he brewed another cup for her. He returned to the living room to see her reclined on the sofa asleep. Her dark hair draped over the arm, and at the opposite end her small toes peeked from under her dress.

He sat down carefully, covering her feet with the hem of her dress. He rested his hand over her toes and sat watching her sleep.

'A moment of passion' she'd said. Yes it was that.

It had occurred to him as he sat with his Brandy that in one short night he'd been flirted with, told a woman he wanted her, and made love. With the occasion of his first moment of passion, he'd found himself standing on the precipice of another. What was he supposed to do now?

To his mind, his relationship with Mirielle had changed. Were they no longer companions, but lovers? Or were those two states inclusive?

He'd never thought of the morning after. Was he supposed to see her home or ask her to stay? He rested his head on one hand and watched her sleep. She seemed comfortable within the house. And last night she had certainly seemed comfortable with him, if her sighs were any indication.

"Take that, Georges Bizet." Erik took a sip of the tea, congratulating himself on wringing from her the most exquisite female sounds. She hadn't sighed like that at Carmen.

He realized suddenly he should have talked to Nadir. Maybe he should have even postponed their intimacy, asking Nadir's opinions first. Nadir had been a married man; he would know what to do next. He would be a man searching the ground in front of him until he had a better lay of this new territory.

Now that he and Mirielle had taken the physical step, would she expect an emotional change? It hadn't been a terrible thought to marry her if she were carrying a child. And when he'd shouted at her over the dress! Goodness, as she would say. He'd called her his woman. It had almost come out 'wife'. When had he gotten so possessive?

He got to his feet carefully so as not to wake her. Going to the bedroom her gathered up his clothes and took them back to his room. Picking out a clean shirt, mask and trousers, he went to the water closet to get cleaned up and dressed.

As he ran hot water, he slipped off his mask. He didn't usually sleep in one. His skin needed some time to breathe. And that was another thing that would change if tonight were to happen again.

Since the mask covered him, it also had the tendency to hold in moisture. A spot where the material would rub would soon develop into a sore. Searching daily for the tell tale reddening meant he could use a salve to keep the spot from getting worse.

He detested sores. He'd suffered enough as a child with them. The side show owners didn't care. It only made him look more horrific when the crowd called out to see the mask removed. When he'd been lucky enough to get away from the gypsies and join the larger show that toured Russia, he'd been allowed a space in a wagon. One of the chests of his magic props had held his experimental masks. He'd been able to use a new one daily and the sores no longer appeared unless he got careless.

He'd learned to be aware of his body. He'd lost two toes to frost bite in Germany. He'd had fingers smashed and small lacerations that had gotten infected. He'd been something ugly to look at until he took up the violin. The gypsies then spent more coin on getting him cleaned up and healthy.

Since leaving the nomadic life of the traveling shows, he'd spent his wealth on fine clothing, and was meticulous of his appearance. God may have blasted his face, but French coins had given him a dignity that no one would take away from him again.

He didn't know how long he had stood staring at the mirror. He shut off the water and toweled off the steam so that he could see himself again. There was a lot he had to think about. All of it revolved around Mirielle.

* * *

Theophile La Chance smiled brightly at his sister-in-law. Appoline's clear blue eyes were guiless and the blush of a rose still colored her cheeks. Despite the pain she suffered, she seemed at peace.

"Uncle, would you care for some refreshment," Mathurin offered.

"Certianly. Coffee. Black with one sugar."

As his nephew went to the small kitchen he sat down by Appoline. "It is time we discussed his future."

"He's making his own future. He has a job with the newspaper here in Paris."

"It can't be much of a living." His eyes made a dismissive assessment of the room.

"It provides all we need." She didn't need much, but he needed a future.

His lips formed a hard flat line. "There's a good job for him at the factory. It'll teach him hard work."

Hard work made hard men. The iron smelting factory would burn away his spirit in the heat of the crucible. "I want something better for him."

"There's nothing wrong with the work. It's stood our family a living!"

His ram rod spine had gone straighter a notch. "Certainly," she replied with a slight movement of her eyes. It was enough; he looked again at the worn sofa and table and wilted a degree. "My son is accustomed to working hard," she added. The family knew how much money her husband had squandered. They had waved it aside with the excuse that it went to her medical bills, until the debtors had come banging at the door with all of his gambling debts.

"I'm here to offer him a job. It'll be up to the boy."

Mathurin La Chance picked up the tray with the steaming cups on it. Now that his Uncle had fallen silent, it would be time to rescue his Mother from the old bore.


	20. Needles

**A/N: Thanks so much, reviewers. Erik still has a lot to learn...  
**

**Chapter Nineteen: Needles**

Mirielle turned on the sofa. Opening her eyes, she glanced around the room. The wooden paneling was a dark color. The sofa and chair were covered in maroon jacquard; someone had embroidered antimacassars that rested on the backs. The tables were cherry, polished to a smooth sheen; they reflected the soft glow of the shaded lamps that adorned them. She remembered behind her must be the bookshelves. The fireplace looked to be some sort of carved stone. On the mantel sat a clock, a vase, and at either end sat a small box. Standing beside it was a whatnot shelf that with a pair of mother-of-pearl boats, sea shells and a large round object. Sitting up, she glanced over to the fireside chair to see Erik sitting with a foot propped up on a footstool.

"Would you care for some breakfast?" he asked. He'd dressed, but sat without his frock coat on. The golden links of his watch chain peeking out of his vest pocket glinted in the lamplight like his strange eyes.

She pushed her hair back from her face. "Goodness. I didn't even stay awake for the cup of tea I asked for, did I?"

He offered her a hand, and took her to his kitchen.

Taking her coat, he put it back into the living room, giving her a moment to look over the room. Carefully arranged sconces lent a warm golden glow to the room. The wooden cabinets were painted a light golden color, topped with a green colored tile. On the stove sat a simmering copper kettle. There was a basket for bread, a cheeseboard resting atop one cabinet and a tall banded copper ewer. By the far wall sat a small table with two chairs. It all combined to remind her of her little kitchen in her cottage, small and simple the way the country people liked things.

"Should we fix your dress?" He hesitated before the table.

She smiled. It did look silly, and it seemed to bother him that things were not put to rights around him. She thought that suited him. "Yes, thank you."

Turning her back to him, she undid the buttons, and pulled her arms out, twisting the dress around and then re-inserting her arms. She twisted the length of her hair in one hand and held it up out of the way as he worked to re-fasten the dress.

Erik finished the last closing, and brushed a hand lightly over the nape of her neck. Seating her in a chair, he told her, "I'll go find your hair combs. They were in the living room as I recall."

He returned and placed the items on the table. "Would you like tea now? I have some croissants, or a baguette. There's butter and two kinds of jam."

Mirielle picked up one of the jam pots. "Mmm, I love raspberry jam. Sometimes for dessert I toast bread on the fender and slather jam on it."

"As I recall, you take cream in your coffee. Do you need it for your tea as well?"

"I take it either way." She sat watching him move around the kitchen. He brought two cups to the table and then seated himself.

She took a sip of the steaming tea; it gave her hands something to do as her mind came awake. They'd fought before she had lain down on the sofa. The poor man had been so upset that he hadn't taken precautions. And now they sat comfortably in the kitchen, performing the same sort of mundane actions that the other people of Paris would be doing at this moment. "This is a nice kitchen. I like the way you've brought the sunlight into it."

Erik glanced at her; she was spreading jam on her slice from the baguette. Did she not remember she was under the ground? He'd brightened the room up when he choose the colors for it. His Mother had enjoyed her sunlit kitchen. It was one of the rooms she could escape to alone. "A kitchen should be a bright room. Like the water closet. It is easier to see what you are about."

"A kitchen is usually the heart of a house," she replied. "What of your house? You are a bachelor."

He thought of the rooms, his bedroom was his final refuge. The organ sat on a dais to one side of the room. Curtains still hung around the coffin which sat in the middle of the room. What would Mirielle think of that?

When he had brought Christine here, the house had opened like a bloom unfurling. The dining room was where they dined, the sofa in the living room was where they sat, the kitchen had been a place they drifted through, she to a lesser degree as she was his guest. While his bedroom had been his retreat, hers was an unapproachable area. He had to knock, and he had to wait upon her whims, allowing her the privacy a woman required.

He chose not to answer her question, instead he asked, "Do you need more tea?"

Mirielle shook her head. They sat eating and finally he pushed back his chair and sat with a hand propped on the table near his tea cup.

"I suppose we could find a cab for you now."

"Yes? What time is it?"

He pulled out his watch. "It's just gone eight o'clock."

She made a noise and nodded. "I should be on my way then." She stood before he could pull out her chair. She walked to the living room, and retrieved her coat. Fastening it, she took a last look around the quiet room. Stepping up to the mantel, she ran a finger over it; it was stone of some sort.

Erik joined her. "It's French red limestone, similar to the balustrade of the stairs in the Grand Escalier." He went forward and rested a hand on it. "Garnier tried to give the building as much color as he could. The tile in the kitchen is Italian Limestone."

"Was it for the Opera as well?"

Erik shrugged. "It was one of the benefits of helping work on the project. They would have still charged for all of it, and since it would be hauled off, I seized the pieces for my own work. They were the pieces left from the frieze along the façade of the building." He'd never thought anyone would see it and ask. Christine had questioned nothing, but she did awake into a nightmare with a man that was half mad with sickness.

He gave himself a mental shake. "Here, my dear. I'll take you up now."

Mirielle smiled and walked to the door he indicated. She'd hoped he would have said something else about last night. Most men would have asked the age old question-was it any good? Whether through braggadocios or feared inadequacies, they always seemed to want to hear that they were perfect lovers. Her husband had persisted in asking her for all of their years together.

Outside the door, was a path to the gravel shore where the little boat rested. The lake was an expanse of dark glass, utterly silent as it threaded under the building on its way to join the river. As she listened to his footfalls in the gravel she heard another sound; the clacking sound of knitting needles. The sound was accompanied by the vision of herself in a chair with a shawl on, humming a tune and watching over a grandchild. She'd hoped to spend her years exploring the rest of what life had to offer with a lusty husband. The sound of a headboard knocking against the wall faded away, replaced by the knitting needles. Holding back a deep sigh, she stepped into the boat.

Erik held out a hand for her, she sat down once again, her back to him as he took his place in the boat and shoved off the shore. His heart seemed to hammer loud enough to overcome the sound of the pole slipping through the water as he propelled the boat away from his house. She'd said no more about last night. Was it rude to ask? Perhaps he should leave it be, he didn't want her to think he was fishing for a compliment. And the worse that could happen was that she would be upset with him.

Turning the boat as it slid toward the quay, he tossed the stern roped through the iron ring to secure the craft. Laying down the pole, he turned and offered her a hand. She stood and looked around the concrete that was poured around the walls.

Mirielle stepped lightly along the walkway. Despite the temperatures at street level, it was a bit warmer down here. But that warmth seemed to siphon away with every step they took away from his house. "Thank you for dinner," she said.

He nodded in reply. "I hope our trip through the catacombs was not too strenuous for you."

"No not at all." They continued up stairs and down corridors, too many turns for her to even hope to remember. Not that she would find her way down here again unless he led her. Although he appeared in public with her, she doubted it would have happened if he had another avenue to do it by.

When they reached the level of the streets, he led her down the Communard's road. Some of the doors to the cells they had built stood open, the frames of cots sitting in mute testimony to the prisoners who had been kept here.

Mirielle never asked what the cells were for. It was as far away from her thoughts as the moon was to her at the moment. She knew they were close to leaving the building by the evidence of human interference around them.

Before the Rue Scribe gate he stopped. He took hold of her hand and held her still. "Mirielle," he sounded a bit breathless. "Thank you."

She ducked her head, a little embarrassed.

"Last night was.."

She pressed her lips together and nodded. "Was…"

"Yes."

She gave his hand a fleeting squeeze and turned towards the gate. He sensed she was pulling away, in more than just the physical sense.

He was dying, he was sure of it now. His breath left his lungs. He could feel his very soul straining to leave him, to follow her. The quiet darkness at his back had never felt so frozen or so hollow.

The flesh followed the spirit. With a step forward, he took hold of her arm and pulled her back. He hovered, his lips very close to hers. Closing the distance, he gave her a soft, lingering kiss. Then a kiss on her forehead, then a kiss on her cheek, which led to the kiss just next to her ear. Which in turn led to her breath warming his ear, and his hand winding behind her neck to hold her head still while he began the slow, tantalizing dance that their tongues had learned.

Her hands circled his back, her body leaned into his. He followed the arch of her neck with his teeth.

"That cellar," she said breathlessly, "the one with the props."

He gave her one last deep kiss. Taking her hand he led her back up to the third cellar.

He pulled a sheet off of a chaise that was stored there; Mirielle lifted her skirts and lay back. Buttons came open; clothing was hurriedly pushed aside accompanied by moans and heavy breathing. It was more erotic than he would have believed.

When they had recovered, he rested a hand on her neck and placed a light kiss on her forehead. That delicious scent of hers filled him. Her silken skin welcomed him.

Mirielle lay in the darkness. His voice slid over her like silk, "Stay with me." They barely made it back to the house before clothing began to fall away.

As she turned on her side once again in the bed and snuggled up next to his warm body, she realized she could no longer hear the sound of knitting needles.


	21. Cognac With A Friend

**Chapter Twenty: Cognac With A Friend**

Mirielle giggled. "Am I going to make it to a cab this time?"

Erik ran a hand down the outside of her thigh. "We really should get you home. Your room mates have probably called out the gendarmes by now."

"Goodness! They will have a fit until I tell them what happened."

Erik stilled his hand's journey passed her knee. "Little rogue, you aren't to tell them anything." Was she?

"They want to hear about how romantic it was." She turned her head towards him. His hand began moving again. He was new at this.

Thinking she teased him, he moved his hand to swirl lightly behind her knee, garnering a shiver from her. He leaned over her back and placed a kiss upon her cheek. "Hmmm. Little houri.."

She stilled. "What did you just call me?"

"It's from the Muslims. A houri is a beautiful young woman that attends men in paradise."

"Oh," she sounded rather dejected. "I though you were going to talk dirty to me."

It was his turn to stop, and then burst out laughing.

Mirielle hung on to the pillow under her head while he rolled onto his back. The bed was shaking as he roared with laughter. She smiled until he finally subsided. She sat up, clutching the edge of the sheet across her bosom. Pursing her lips she looked down at him. "Really, darling man. You'll have to learn pillow talk."

He sat up, close at her back and took a locket of her hair in his fingers. And then, he began to sing.

She floated somewhere along the rising and falling sound of his voice. Feeling as if her skin had caught fire, she leaned backwards, into his arms. Melting like candle wax, she lay back as he moved her across his lap. He rocked her gently as the song wound on, her eyes refused to stay open. She lost the power to lift a hand, but with a change in his voice she followed it, rising until she twisted to face him. He stopped. She realized she sat facing him with his hands on her face. She inhaled deeply and sighed.

Erik watched her face. Although she was not as immersed in music as Christine had been, his voice still wove its spell around her. "I won't sing unless you want me to," he said very softly. He wouldn't cheat her of it if she wanted it, but he wouldn't use it to coerce her either. It was too important that she came to him willingly.

"Will you have dinner with me again?" he asked.

"Yes." He might have asked her to dance naked in the street, and she would have agreed. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same time.

He gave her shoulder a shake. "I'll bring your clothes to the water closet. You can have a bath, and then we'll get you home."

She blinked rapidly. "Of course, dear man." She slid off the edge of the bed and wandered down the hall.

* * *

"There is a gentleman here to see you," Darius announced. "It is Erik."

Nadir looked up so quickly from his papers he had to make a grab for the glasses that slid off of his nose. "Erik?" Darius nodded. "Well, show him in."

Nadir put his glasses on the desk and went to stand before the door. As it opened, the tall figure of Erik moved silently inside the room.

"What has happened?"

"Good morning to you as well, Abd al-Majiid Junaibi Nadir Khan."

Nadir motioned towards a chair. "Sit down." He gazed at the man and made an open handed gesture, "Would you care for some refreshment?"

"Is it too early for a Cognac?"

Nadir called for Darius, "Bring me two glasses and the Cognac."

Waiting for his manservant to return, he took the tray from him and pushed the door closed in the younger man's face. Setting the tray on a small table, he poured the drink and handed it to Erik who appeared content to wait until he had a glass of his own. "What has happened?"

Erik glanced at him with speculation in his golden eyes. "Why do you always assume the worst?"

Nadir gave a small laugh. "Well, the last time you were here you insisted you were dying."

"Hmm, yes, well. It's not death this time. I need your advice."

"My advice," the Persian repeated.

Erik tilted his head back so the drink would not touch his mask. "I took Madame Montalais home last night."

Nadir waited. "And…?"

Erik's head swiveled quickly. "To _my_ home, you ninny." The Persian's face was almost comical. "Did you understand me?" Erik tried again. "I took her home to _my _home."

Nadir looked down at his glass as if it had appeared by magic. Lifting it to his lips he took a careful sip. "She's..ah..is she?"

"Oh for God's sake, don't attempt any witticisms, just pay attention daroga." Erik sat his glass down and steepled his fingers, recounting the evening as his swarthy companion sat absorbing every word. Drawing to a close, he said, "I rowed her across the lake to the house."

Nadir sat blinking. "Well. Go on man."

"We threw propriety to the wind, and went to bed."

"Yes?"

"Yes." Erik took in the look on Nadir's face and cleared his throat. "Several times."

Nadir let out a startled "oh" in the precise pitch of a pubescent school girl. He downed the liquor, sat the glass down and grabbed one of Erik's hands, pumping it furiously up and down. "Congratulations."

Erik nodded in response to the effusive hand shake. "Yes, but you see, it leaves me with a problem."

Nadir slowed, his brows drawn down in concern.

"I always believed being intimate with a woman would be the one accomplishment that would truly make me a man as other men were. I didn't ever think about the morning after."

"You want to be rid of her?" Nadir gasped.

"No! No, no, no, no, no." Erik held his glass out for the Persian to re-fill. "Precisely the opposite, I want to keep her."

The lip of the decanter tipped slightly, a slow drop plopped in the glass. "Keep her?"

Erik lowered his glass so that more of the liquor poured, "Yes." The decanter tipped back more, stopping the flow. Tired of this game, Erik snatched the bottle from the Persian and finished topping off the glass. "You know, keep her."

Nadir sat back with a shrug. "Marry her."

"I don't love her."

Nadir tsked.

"What?" Erik drew the word out.

"I'm surprised at you." Nadir pursed his lips and got to his feet pacing before Erik's chair. "No," he held up a finger. "I am thoroughly disappointed in you." He turned and held his hands in the air. "How could you?"

Erik sat back in the chair. "What are you accusing me of?"

"Don't take that tone with me, Monsieur. You should be ashamed of yourself. Taking advantage of that woman that way!"

Erik had the distinct feeling of ants running up his neck and pulled at his collar. "Did not," he muttered.

Nadir stopped, looking down his fine Persian nose. "You didn't attempt to restrain yourself did you? Hmmm?"

Damn, these must be fire ants, his neck burned. "I…thought about it...a lot."

"Yela'an sabe'a jad lak! What if she had gotten pregnant?"

"Leave my seventh grandfather out of this, daroga." He took a sip of the liquor. "We discussed that. There won't be any children."

"But what if she did, would you do the proper thing and marry her?"

"Of course," Erik growled. "What sort of man do you think I am? I berated myself for nearly two hours over it."

Nadir stilled. "What do you mean 'berated yourself'?" He sat down heavily in his chair, closing his eyes. "Erik. You didn't!"

Heaving a sigh, Erik replied, "No. I didn't."

"Yakhreb beytak! The ruin of your house," Nadir wailed.

"She didn't bring it up because she knew we didn't need anything," he protested.

"Hmmph." Nadir eyes narrowed. "You pleaded innocent of the chandelier as well.

"Nadir." Erik raised his hands. "I swear I only wanted to touch her. She was there, standing there so beautiful in the light of the lantern. And she sighed when I kissed her. I daroga, I kissed her as a man kisses a woman.."

"So, now she's the temptress? It's all her fault?"

"No, good God no. She said we were both adults, there should be no embarrassment."

"Did you let her finish the sentence before you dragged her off to your cave?"

Erik bristled. "I happen to have a proper house.."

"But not proper manners to go with it, you booby!"

The ants seemed to be marching happy little circles all over his back. "I need your help. I don't know what to do next." When Nadir made no reply he asked, "I want to be near her, but I don't know how to ask her."

He got to his feet and walked towards the window. "I want to be around her, but I'm not sure if I ask her to come home with me again if that is being rude. Or is it expected every time we are together now? Will she be offended if I don't try to charm her into bed?"

He returned to his chair, perching on the edge. "Help me. You had a wife. What is it women expect?"

Nadir sat pushing his lips in and out before answering. "My dear fellow, if I could tell you that I would be the richest man on earth. I can tell you one thing for certain, though. A woman wants to be loved. If you cannot find it in your heart to love her, you must let her go. She deserves better than that from you."

Erik closed his eyes. A sharp pain lanced his chest.

Nadir sat forward. "Love takes time. Until it happens, you will have to pursue her."

"What? You mean woo her?"

Nadir nodded. "Yes, my friend. You must join the chase."


	22. Temperatures

**Chapter Twenty-One: Temperatures**

"Have you not been listening, Nadir? I've already possessed her."

"That's what you believe," the Persian replied with a snort.

"I know where she lives, and I know what she likes to eat, and I've made the woman melt in my arms," Erik huffed.

"Ah!" Nadir sat back, rubbing his hands. "You see. She's got you on the run already. That's exactly what she wants you to think."

"Think? I _know_ she enjoyed it."

"No, no," he waved a dismissing hand. "I have no doubt of that. You always were an artist."

Erik straitened. "Thank you."

"Now, pay attention," Nadir added, sliding forward in the chair. "She'll want to be chased, she will be difficult."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Should we switch to straight Persian-I told you I've already _got _her."

Nadir sighed. "Indulge me." He leapt from the chair. "First, she will seem pliant. But, when you think she will submit to your request, _poof_! She will deny you. It will start with little things, and then escalate to the more important ones."

"Faugh. You make it sound like some military campaign. Mirielle is different. She reads and she's quite intelligent, but sometimes it's like the light just isn't coming out of the lantern quite the way it should."

"Are you suggesting she's witless?"

"No, Nadir. She just has a different way of looking at the world. Simplistic. Realistic." He considered Nadir's comments. "I don't think Mirielle is as complicated as you are suggesting."

"Erik! She's female," he hissed. "They're like tigers. They camouflage themselves in beautiful colors lying in wait for the unwary, and then they pounce!"

Erik considered the wild eyed look on the other man's face. "And you're saying that I'm the gazelle at the watering hole?"

"Without a doubt."

Erik stood, drawing himself up. His voice growing darker seemed to pull the shadows forth from the edges of the room. "I am Erik," he pronounced. "I am the Opera Ghost. I have been the Hand of the Shah-in-Shah, the Angel of Death for the Khanum, the Living Corpse, the most feared magician over the continents of Europe and the Russia's!" He looked down the imaginary length of his nose. "I am not a gazelle."

Nadir looked skeptical. "Would you prefer roses or lilies on your coffin?"

* * *

Mirielle waited inside the door of her building, her breathe steaming up the door. It had snowed all day with little to show for it except the bitter cold. She pulled her coat collar up closer around her throat as she stepped out of the door.

The cab's door swung open, and a tall figure in a large hat and greatcoat stepped out, offering a black gloved hand. She mounted the step and took her seat.

"Good evening, Mirielle." Erik said. "I hope it is not too cold for you."

"No, that's all right. I've got a heavier coat this time." She slid her hands inside her muff.

Erik sat with his back to the driver, the way a proper gentleman should. He looked her over in the lights that flashed by. Something covered her hair.

Arriving at the restaurant, someone had cleared a path to the door. He stepped from the cab and helped her down. The door swung open revealing one of their servers. "Good Evening," the boy said.

"Ah, Hughes," Mirielle's soft hand pulled out of her muff to brush the boys face. "So nice to see you again."

The boy turned scarlet with sparkling eyes. "Thank you, Madame." He was reaching for her coat, but Erik intercepted him. He removed her garment, and handed it to the boy along with his hat and coat. Mirielle pulled off the lacy looking scarf that had covered her hair.

Seating Mirielle he looked over the dress she wore this time. It was a satiny confection with pleats and ruffles in a dark purple. He noticed her earrings, pearls shaped like tear drops. He bent near her ear. "You are breathtaking."

Mirielle glanced shyly at him. "Thank you, dear man."

The matre d' arrived, and they sat through the menu for the evening. Erik began their order, "The veal chops with Chanterelle mushrooms."

"I think I'd like to try the chicken in Roquefort Sauce," Mirielle said. She smiled disarmingly.

Erik blinked. Nadir's words whispered in the back of his mind. _At first she'll seem__pliant…_

Would you like to try my chicken when it comes?" she asked.

"No, thank you, my dear. I don't care for chicken. The gypsies found it the easiest farm animal to steal." He flicked the napkin into his lap.

Her dark brows drew together, a little v forming above her nose. "I'm sorry to hear that. I make a wonderful Chicken Paillardes with Mustard Cream and Tarragon."

Erik nodded to the matre d'. The servers disappeared and came back bearing two tall fluted glasses. "I had them make this for you."

"What is it?"

"It's a raspberry champagne cocktail." He waited for her to raise her glass, and took up his own. She sampled the drink.

"Oh, that is lovely."

She'd positively purred the words. The timbre of her voice pricked his ears, the feeling a gazelle might experience. He cleared his throat. "How are getting on with your new job?"

They chatted through the courses until the coffee arrived. Mirielle regaled him with humorous stories from the shop where she now worked. Erik asked, "You haven't been bothered by that reporter have you?"

She seemed taken aback. "No. I haven't heard anything from him. Has he been pestering you?"

"No, and I find that unusual since he pressed so desperately to talk to you."

"I have talked to Zacharie though."

"He was with you when you came back to the Garnier." He waited for her to finish the sip of coffee she was drinking. "Would you like to spend an evening at the Opera again?"

"I'd love to," she began. "But I promised to go with Zacharie."

His jaw suddenly seemed to feel tight. "Zacharie?"

"Yes. The young man is trying to move into the job of writing the theater reviews for his paper, and I told him we could use the tickets that the managers gave us to see the opening performance of _Aida._ That way, I could help him with terms and such information."

"You are going to introduce him to opera?"

"It's the least I can do. He's such a nice young man," she gushed.

He grimaced knowing the edges of his lips showed beyond the dark mask he wore. She smiled demurely in return, her dark lashes sweeping over her dark blue eyes.

The matre d' returned with the bill. "Could you add a glass of Brandy onto this for me?" Erik asked.

"Certainly. Would Madame care for anything?"

She drew a slow circle along the edge of her saucer. "No, thank you. Dinner was divine."

Erik glanced at the matre d'. He stood beaming under Mirielle's coy gaze. Good lord. "I could offer you the use of my box for the evening."

"Thank you, dear man. That would be perfect. We could chat and not disturb the other patrons."

She chatted on, and he made half hearted noises. Pulling his fist off of the table top, he twisted his fingers together under the edge of the table and jiggled his foot until the brandy appeared. He made a grunt in reply to her comment and tossed the liquor down in one gulp, it's liquid fire burning a line down his throat.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mirielle asked. Somewhere during dinner she had taken on the lion's share of the talking while he sat merely responding.

His eyes briefly disappeared. He turned in his chair, tossing the napkin onto the table. "Yes, I'm fine."

Mirielle folded her hands onto her lap, wondering if she had offended him some how. They were only discussing the opera. "Are you going to watch the performance?"

He nodded. "Of course."

Mirielle brush her neck, feeling a little unsure of what to say next. "I look forward to it. I've heard about all those gorgeous costumes. Egypt is so mysterious." He'd crossed his arms over his chest. "Will you be there, at that performance?"

"No," he replied lightly. "I'll leave you and your student." Taking up the pen on the tray at his elbow, he signed the bill with a quick, sharp strokes. "I'll get your coat for you."

Oh my. He was put out over something. His tension radiated through his hands as he held her coat for her. He dropped the shoulders of it over her with his fingertips, not touching her skin, and turned briskly to put on his own.

He hustled her out the door and into the cab, releasing her hand quickly as soon as her foot found the floor. He stepped into the darkness and sat across from her.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Mirielle."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

She paused, letting her leg slide closer to his. As Erik felt the brush of her dress, he shifted slightly in the seat, and drew his leg away.

She made a noise like an alley cat, that low growl that made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. She reached up and hammered a fist on the door of the cab, causing it to lurch to a stop. Pushing forward, she slid off the seat and out the door.

"What are you doing?" Erik surged forward, following her retreating shape, a shadow against the whiteness of the snow. "Mirielle?" He turned quickly back to the cab, stuffing a couple of franc notes into the man's hand. He turned to follow her.

She was making straight for the other corner of the park. Reaching for her elbow, he came abreast of her in time to be swatted with her scarf as she flung it over her shoulder while adjusting it over her face.

"Mirielle!" He took hold of her and pulled her to a stop. "What are you doing?"

"I'm walking home," she replied, her breath streamed in the frigid air.

"Dearest girl, it's freezing out here. You'll make yourself ill," he scolded.

"It wasn't very warm in the cab either," she retorted.

"Well, no. Cabs aren't heated."

She raised a dark gloved hand to her face. "Don't be obtuse, Erik." She pulled at her arm, twisting to get away from his grasp.

"Obtuse?" he asked, testing the word with his lips. "I'm not obtuse," he huffed. "I'll have you know I pride myself on being rather erudite." She turned sharply, making him stop.

"Well ponder this for a while. When I was referring to the temperature in the cab I was hinting at the rather chill reception I was enduring this evening." She stalked off again, the bottom of her skirt making a shushing sound in the snow.

Erik looked down at the track, walking along behind her. Nadir's words echoed in the cold, sharp air. _Pursue her_.


	23. Chasing Mirielle

**A/N: Greeting all. Hope your summer is nice. Thanks for the wonderful reviews. It always astounds me that anyone reads my little stories... **

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Chasing Mirielle**

She heard his steps crunching in the snow behind her. Gentleman that he was, he wouldn't abandon her in the park by herself. Maybe he was considering an apology. She passed through the light of the street lamp, noticing the sudden quiet.

Arrested in mid-step, she turned. Erik was gone. A feeling of something at her back, hovering, made her turn quickly, searching the darkness. She stepped backwards into the halo of light from the streetlamp. "Erik?"

The lightly falling snow began to take on a swirling dance in the light. It came down heavier, wet and chilling. "Erik?" She went to the post, putting something solid at her back. "Where are you?" she challenged the silent storm.

Objects beyond the light became distorted forms, dark against lights that winked beyond the maelstrom of white. She took a step towards one, it was low and long, a bench. She walked towards another, the sounds of her steps becoming amplified as she sank into the depth of the snow.

She turned, behind was the light, a beckoning reassurance. "Erik?" she challenged the darkness. She saw a shadowy form separate itself from a larger dark one. "Erik!"

She walked quickly towards him. The snow was settling on the brim of his hat and outlining the shoulders of his cape.

"Dearest girl," he opened his arms as she hurried towards him. "I went back to the edge of the park to call a cab," he pointed, turning her in his embrace, "you see?" He stepped back from her.

"I thought you were gone," she stammered. "I thought you were angry with me and you…"

"Hush, little one," he said softly. "I'm here. Erik would never leave you."

"Dearest man," she said, looking up. Her eyes were dark gems in her pale skin, the dark scarf obscured her lips.

He could hear the blood roar in his ears. The edges of his vision faded while the object of his attention drew into heightened focus. The mist of her breath, the smell of that perfume she wore being whipped by in the cold currents. He lifted a hand, brushing the scarf aside. Her lips waited.

"Alors! Take it to a hotel!"

Mirielle's brows drew down, she looked over Erik's arm. A pair of men strolled by, laughing as they walked, their coats flung open and hands stuffed in pockets. "Eh!" She made a rude gesture. "Go home yourselves," she scolded. She glanced back at the glowing slits of Erik's eyes. "You think that's amusing as well?"

He gave in and laughed out loud. "Yes. I think it is amusing."

"They are accusing me of being a prostitute." She planted her hands against his ribs and gave him a shove.

"No, dearest girl," he chuckled and pulled her back against him. He whispered in her ear, "They are accusing you of being a desirable woman." She remained unconvinced, and he pulled her towards the waiting cab. "The snow is getting worse. You'll catch a cold if you stay out here."

Mirielle walked, kicking the wet hem of her skirt before her. "It's not so bad. It snows more than this where I used to live." She looked up at the mask, it dipped towards her again. "At least the snow makes the city smell clean."

He made a noise of agreement. He suffered the feeling of a trapped hive of bees around his eyes. The cold made his forehead feel like he'd been hit with an axe. "It gives me a headache."

She stepped forward quickly, a hand on his chest. "Awww." She sounded like she'd found a wounded puppy. Erik looked down at her; the concern on her face was quite touching.

"Erik! Why didn't you say something? If I'd known you had a headache, we could have had dinner another night."

He winced. She'd turned to a scold on the level with his Mother. She must have seen his reaction, for she rubbed the hand over his chest.

"You should go home and have a nice cup of tea, or some very sweet hot chocolate," she crooned. "And a headache powder. Do you have any of that? We could stop and get some at my apartment."

"I'll be all right," he told her. They reached the cab, and he helped her inside.

She sat forward, clasping his hand. "Oh, dear man. Is it because of your noselessness?"

"I don't think that's a proper term for it."

"Aww," she breathed. She clambered over to the seat next to him. Wrapping her arms through one of his she sighed. "I'm sorry darling. I'd keep you warm if I could."

He looked down at her sincere eyes, and smiled. "You do, little rogue." He brushed a kiss to her forehead. She rested her head against his shoulder. He rested his chin against her hair and closed his eyes. The splitting ache between his eyes had already begun to subside.

The cab rolled to a stop before her apartment building. She gave his arm a final squeeze. "Thank you for dinner."

He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Thank you, Madame." He pushed aside the door so she could climb down, and followed her to the stoop. Draping the folds of his cape around them both he bent to whisper, "How do you feel about hotels?"

Mirielle ran her hands around his waist. "Monsieur, what do you take me for?"

Hidden from view, his hands slid to her bottom. "I take you for a passionate woman," his voice sounded rough.

"Mmmm. Keep that thought," she replied silkily. "Perhaps next time," the sentence was carried away by the breeze.

He released her and held open the glass door to her building. He knew she had to go to work tomorrow or he might have tried to persuade her into bed again.

He took the cab back to the Place de Opera.

* * *

Erik woke to the sound of a tinkling of bells. "Oh hell." He turned slowly, sitting up on the sofa. He was still in his clothing from last night. The empty glass sat on the floor. He bent to pick it up and take it to the kitchen.

He had enough time to go to his bedroom. Shucking off his vest, he threw on his robe over his shirt and trousers. Walking back to the front door, he swung it open as Nadir pulled the boat up onto the gravel.

The Persian's dark eyes swept over him. "I'm not intruding, am I?"

Erik snorted. "You've been intruding since you left your mother's womb, daroga. As I recall, it was part of your occupation wasn't it?"

Nadir let the comment drop. "I take it you are alone this morning?"

"Yes. Only dinner together last night, and a walk in the park."

"A walk? It snowed last night didn't it?"

"Yes and I had a tremendous headache thanks to Mother Nature."

Nadir blinked. "That's what women say."

Erik balked. "Thank you, Nadir Khan. I feel the urge to scour my tongue on a grinding wheel for that."

Nadir huffed, "Well they do. They always get headaches when it's time for bed."

Erik considered the other man. "I shouldn't wonder why." At his companion's blank look he offered, "Have you had coffee yet?"

"Yes, but if you are making a pot I'll take my life into my hands and partake of a cup."

"It's the way European's like it; a little more liquid than coffee." He led the way to the kitchen.

"How did it go with your lady?"

"Interesting. I usually order, but last night she chose her own meal."

"Ahh, I told you. They start with little things."

"She got angry at me for some reason, and took off out of the cab."

"You pursued her?"

"Yes, yes. I couldn't let her just go haring off alone in the city."

"Then what happened?"

"Well. I got another cab. I told her she'd make herself ill, and that's when I mentioned my headache. She started talking in that voice people talk to babies and small animals with. That sort of cooing, singsong voice."

"Perfect! You appealed to her womanliness."

"What?"

"They feel the need to nurture, too soothe," Nadir explained. "A stroke of genius upon your part."

"I didn't do it apurpose." He turned back to the coffee pot. "It just felt nice to have someone fuss over me."

Nadir watched Erik set two cups on the table. "What's going to happen now?"

Erik dropped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. "Nothing. She's going to one of the performances of _Aida _with de Brie, that reporter I told you about."

"What? That _akhu sharmoota_?"

"No, the other reporter. The little fellow who came here with her that day that the akhu sharmoota tried to coerce her into paying Box Five's rental fee."

"So this one is the nice young man who asked to help you?"

"Yes. The booby is Fat-Chance. This one is de Brie."

"And what is he-the Little Cheese?" Nadir smirked.

Erik shrugged. "Mirielle just gushes 'Zacharie'. She hasn't given him a nom de guerre yet."

Nadir noticed the falsetto rise in Erik's voice as he aped Mirielle's pronunciation of the name. "Erik." He challenged. "You sound jealous."

"Nadir, if I were a jealous man do you think Christine's pretty Vicomte would still be alive?"

The Persian rotated his cup, studying the handle. "That's true." He watched Erik pick up his coffee. "Besides, it's not like you love her."

"Precisely." The empty feeling in his stomach must be from the lack of breakfast.

"Why should it concern you who she sees? She's deserves some companionship."

"Daroga, I hate to rush you along, but I need to do some shopping."

"Ah, well. Thank you for the coffee." He slid back on his gloves. "I must be running along also. A lot of things to do today."

Erik sat with an elbow propped on the table. "Where would I find some of the silk things like the woman wore in your country?"

Nadir paused in the kitchen doorway. "A Jilbab?"

"No," Erik snorted. "Not that horrible winding sheet they smother themselves in. I mean something more like those flimsy little trousers and those things they wear," he stretched fingers over his chest.

"You mean the clothing of the _harim_?"

Erik hedged, "From what I remember, there were robes of silk as well."

"I'll see what I can find. But here in the west, there is mostly the veil and the jilbab."

Erik sighed. "I'd like to find her something in silk."

"You'd like to find her in something silk." Nadir agreed and turned away.

He was out of the front door before Erik realized what he had said.

* * *

An akhu sharmoota is a brother of a whore.  



	24. The Real Chapter 15

**Sorry! This was to be Chapter 15, but I glossed over it somehow! Fanfic is not very robust for replacing chapters unless i delete everything and go over. So, sparing you over a dozed notifications, I have to slid it in here! Boo Hoo! It should appear after "Nadir Kahn" and before "Under the Table"   
**

**Part Thirteen: A Visit To The Opera**

Mirielle walked past the shops. She gave a half hearted wave at Clément Cambin as he saw her in the window. She'd gone a few more feet when she heard her name and turned.

Clément waved her back to the shop door. "Mirielle, you're off work early?"

"You could say that," she replied. "I just got fired."

"Come on, Cherie," he placed a large hand lightly on her shoulder. "Take some chops home and relax."

"I have to get another job, Clément. I need the money."

He gave her shoulder a rub as he pushed her through the shop door and towards the counter. "Take some chops home for dinner, and start tomorrow. The girls will help you out."

Despite her anger, she had to smile. The 'girls' she lived with ranged from thirty to fourty-five years young.

"You'd help them wouldn't you?" The look in his eye said he already knew the answer to his question. "I'll keep an eye out for any work and let you know. Just take it a day at a time, eh?"

"All right." She took the package he offered. "Thank you, Clément."

Pushing open the door to the building she lived in, she saw something stuck in the corner of her mail box. She rested a hand over her stomach which seemed to have come alive with little snaky things. Stepping forward, she pulled out a note.

Moving to the staircase, she sat down on a step and put down her package of chops and her newspaper. She turned the note over--her name was not on the envelope.

She opened the flap and pulled out the paper and unfolded it. The page began to crumple in her fingers. It was from M. Fat Chance.

It was there on the stairs that Zacharie de Brie found her.

* * *

Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin sat at their respective desks eyeing M. La Chance as he lounged in the chair across from them. Armand spoke first, "I don't see Monsieur why we need to get involved in this."

La Chance nodded regally to the man. "One would assume that with the exposure of this woman that the Opera Ghost will come running." He laced his long fingers together. "Would it not be to your advantage to be rid of this creature, this nuisance of yours?"

La Chance put on his most friendly smile. Richard only stared at the younger man. Why Moncharmin wanted to hear what this literary upstart wanted was beyond him. La Chance began again, "Gentlemen, you seem reluctant to expose the Ghost."

Richard sat, pursing his lips under his mustache. He shot a quick look at his partner, and leaned forward speaking in a low voice. "Young man, it was a year ago when a Chandelier fell on a member of the audience. The Ghost was not amused at our attempted removal of his favorite box attendant."

"Our predecessor left the Opera because of the Ghost," Moncharmin added. "The creature seems to elude everyone's best attempts at capture or exposure."

La Chance's smile stayed firmly plastered across his smug face. "Perhaps those gentlemen just weren't up to the challenge."

Richard sat back and rested his chin in his hand. The boy's last comment was a direct insinuation that he and his partner were afraid of the Ghost. "The Managers of the Opera are responsible for the health and safety of everyone who enters our doors, Monsieur. The Garnier was built by the government of France, and as such, we safeguard their investment."

La Chance put on a sigh to rival the one the current season's Diva was prone to. "This is your golden opportunity is it not? That woman should be arriving by two o'clock this afternoon for my interview."

Richard could feel Moncharmin's quick glance in his direction. Sitting forward, he planted his hands on the blotter on his desk. "I've got some news for you, Monsieur. If anything untoward occurs because of your meddling. I promise you the only writing you will be doing is on pieces of toilet paper!"

La chance's smug smile never wilted.

"I'll pay for the cab, Madame." Zacharie handed Mirielle down to the pavement at the front entrance of the Opera Garnier.

Mirielle looked up at the front of the building. Its large body sat inside an almost diamond shaped intersection of streets. It had been Baron Haussmann's chore to take on the decimation and re-building of Paris, allowing for this extravagant monument where the Emperor and the social elite could come to see and be seen.

At either far end of the front were the doors where the average citizens would enter to secure their tickets. The doors in the front opened upon a vestibule that ran the length of the building. This was where the elite entered, and their servants followed to remove their coats as they progressed on through the next doors that opened to the Grand Escalier with its sweeping wings of stairs that led upward to the boxes. The auditorium of the theater lay beyond a set of doors, surrounded by onyx and marble.

The Opera took place on one side, while the cream of Parisian society circulated the stairs, actors in dramas of their own design. People like Mirielle were excluded from this dazzling play of opulence. She waited on Zacharie to open the door, and stepped into Garnier's glory.

From the foyer that ran along the first level of boxes, three men appeared. She recognized La Chance, gritting her teeth. The other gentlemen slowed to a respectable distance at the base of the stairs where she waited.

Zacharie gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. At her side, he angled forward a little to buffer her from La Chance who sauntered up to her.

"Madame," he gave a nod. "Punctual at least," he added under his breath.

She felt Zacharie stiffen. She replied in a ringing voice, "At least some of us have been taught our manners."

La Chance's smug smile wilted a degree. He regarded de Brie down the length of his straight, patrician nose. "Zacharie, still hanging on to my coat tails?"

Ignoring the barb, Zacharie gestured towards the men at the stairs. "Madame Montalais, may I present the Managers of the Opera, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin."

The men gave her formal greetings, which she returned. Richard was a tall, robust and bearded man, while Moncharmin was slighter in build and sported a mustache. They remained at a distance from La Chance, and Mirielle had the feeling that their stance implied another sort of separation upon their part.

"If you will follow us, we can begin your interview," La Chance said.

Mirielle released Zacharie's arm and stepped forward. "There will be no interview, Monsieur." She said flatly. "I do not know why you invited me here to the Opera. I came to make it implicitly clear that you will no longer contact me Monsieur La Chance." Glancing at the Managers she continued, "I have lost my job because of your interference in my affairs. If you hope to intimidate me into this interview you so strongly desire, then you have made a mistake."

She looked about the stairs: The marble floors, the carved friezes, the statues, and the gilding. "I'm no one. I understand my place in the world is of no importance to you people. But I refuse to be treated as if I were nothing." She took a breath. "I don't know what you hope to gain by this La Chance. You will not be assisted by me." She turned to the Managers. "What transpires between me and my gentleman is private." She cast a sharp glance at Monsieur Fat Chance and told him with a thinly disguised snarl, "Stay out of my business."

From a vantage point along the upper foyer, Erik watched Mirielle turn on her heel and walk purposefully towards the doors. De Brie paused long enough to give a courteous nod to the Managers, and then swept in behind her. Erik whistled quietly as he took in the determined sway of Mirielle's hips. She appeared quite formidable when she was angry. "Well, it appears you are 'Monsieur No Chance'," Erik quipped.

The fair haired young man called out to the pair as they reached the door. "I beg to differ with you, Madame. You owe these gentlemen admission and box rental for your presence here on two evenings."

Erik moved quickly to another pillar above the tableau. Noting the shocked look on his Manager's faces, he knew that La Chance had kept them in the dark as to the tactics he would use on Mirielle. The iron railing vibrated under Erik's clenched hands. How dare this young fool treat her this way.

Mirielle whirled to look back at La Chance. His facetious smile was gone. It appeared the gloves were finally off. If this meddlesome popinjay wanted a fight, she was ready for one. Zacharie had also turned and was about to respond, when a voice came from a statue perched on the balustrade.

"That will not be necessary."

La Chance had turned in the direction of the statue. Its gilded smiling face gazed off into infinity. He turned sharply glancing about the stairs for the true source of the voice.

"Madame is my guest." the statue spoke again; its tone implied it would not suffer any argument.

Richard stepped forward, raising a hand to Mirielle. "There has been a mistake Madame," he smiled brightly through grit teeth.

Moncharmin looked thunderously at La Chance and echoed his partner, "Yes! A mistake!"

Richard continued. "I am so sorry, Madame. Please accept a pair of tickets for a night of your choice." He swept and arm towards Moncharmin who nodded briskly. "Our complements."

Looking at the man's sincere eyes, Mirielle relaxed. "Thank you so much, Monsieur Richard." She smiled at Zacharie. "We'd enjoy that wouldn't we?"

Richard shook her hand. "Just let my secretary Monsieur Rémy know what evening. We'd be honored to have you visit us again."

Erik crossed his arms over his chest and nodded his approval, surprised that Richard had moved that quickly to diffuse the situation. And he'd been quite nice to Mirielle, making her smile. Maybe he'd have to do something nice for the man. Like removing that little wart that still stood on the stairs looking at the statue.

Definitely a wart. The annoying little growth was not pleased at his plans being foiled. With a certainty Erik knew when Mirielle returned to the Opera, Monsieur No Chance would be right behind her.

And the Phantom would be right behind him.


	25. Nur el kama

**A/N: I'm reporting this because of a misspelling in the Arabic. A big thanks to Nanees for your help! **

**Part Twenty-Three: Nur el kamar**

Mathurin La Chance saw the woman as she reached the door. Stepping forward he grasped her arm. "Madame, I need to speak with you."

The eyes that looked at him were not blue. Looking at the woman's frightened face, he stuttered, "I'm…I'm sorry I mistook you for…"

"Clément!"

Something very solid landed on La Chance's shoulder. He stepped away quickly, but could not duck the meaty fist swinging towards his face. _Not the nose again_, he thought miserably.

La Chance used his hands to walk himself up the side of the building from his seat on the ground. Holding a hand out, he attempted to ward off the huge man. "Sorry, a mistake." Snatching up his hat he ran for the corner of the street.

Clément stepped close to Ursulé. "Are you alright my dear?"

Ursulé blinked in surprise. "Yes. This is that awful reporter. He must be pursuing Mirielle again."

* * *

Mirielle had just stepped inside her door when Catherine and Ursulé looked up from the small sofa. Both of the women leaped to their feet. "Another box has come for you," Catherine told her.

Hanging up her coat, Mirielle looked at the package on the table. A larger rectangle than a box of chocolates, it was flat as well. She took the scissors that Ursulé offered and snipped the strings off of the box.

Inside was something wrapped in tissue paper, and on the top was one of Erik's notes. She sat down on the edge of the sofa with her roommates perched on either side. Running a finger under the flap, they each held their breath.

_For my nur el kamar – my light of the moon_

_Erik_

There were three deep sighs as they re-read the note. Mirielle left it in her lap and lifted the top off the box.

Catherine leaned back, looking across Mirielle's back at Ursulé. Mirielle ran a hand over the dark silken material. "Is it a scarf?"

Finding an edge, she pinched the material between her fingers and lifted. With a whisper the diaphanous material unfolded, her roommates gasped.

"Is it some sort of veil?"

Ursulé shook her head, her eyes growing large. "I read about it. It's what the Arab women wear."

Catherine blinked. "On what? Their hair?" She watched as Mirielle spun the object. "Oh my God, it's some sort of unmentionable!"

"No, it's _all_ they wear," Ursulé squeaked.

Mirielle held it in one hand and ran her other hand inside. "Where can you wear something like this? It's absolutely transparent."

She glanced into the box. Another dark something lay there. Lifting it, it kept unfolding. At least it would cover more than the other piece. She stood, holding it up. "Trousers?"

"Pajamas?"

Catherine tittered. "It's definitely for bed."

Ursulé blushed furiously, a finger to her lips. "That's rather forward isn't it?"

Catherine guffawed. "Oh, I'll say he's going to be forward when he sees Mirielle in that!"

Ursulé looked at the filmy articles. "Are you going to wear it, Mirielle?"

"Not outside in November," she muttered. Picking up the piece that must replace her chemise, she giggled. "It is very risqué isn't it?"

Catherine sat back, giggling and pointing at Ursulé who looked scandalized.

"It's for those harem women. They live in palaces and dress in those sorts of things at the beck and call of their husbands," Ursulé added.

Catherine fanned her face. "Is it getting warmer in here?" She gave Mirielle a nudge in the ribs. "Are you going to be at his beck and call?"

Mirielle gave a rich, sultry laugh. "We'll see who does the beckoning."

* * *

Louis Garineau glanced at the side of the building. "You have permission to get on the premises?"

"Of course." La Chance talked slowly, as it reciting to a child. He held up a key for the man to see. "The Managers have been most appreciative of my efforts."

Garineau sniffed. "I don't care; I just don't want to get arrested." He paused to gather the leads of the three large hounds in his rawboned hand. "And if any of my dogs gets hurt, you get the bill."

La Chance looked down at the dogs, who examined him with a touch more intelligence than their handler. As long as their noses worked, they would be worth the money he had spent to bribe one of the door closers for a key and the ticket booth attendant for the time to enter the building unseen.

On the eastern side of the back of the building, they passed into the wan light given off by the lamp perched next to the stage exit. Using the key, La Chance pushed open the door and walked purposefully inside. Waving Garineau in, La Chance wasted no time finding the area that lead to the foyer, and out into the hallways of the main entrance.

Glancing back as they passed plush velvet settees, paintings, and mirrors, he watched Garineau gape while the dogs appeared unimpressed. Leading him upward, they entered the hall that led to box five.

The hounds went to work, immediately, nosing along the floor, the seats and finally along the walls. Garineau chivied them on, "Ready, boys?" he asked excitedly. "Come on! We have a ghost to catch!"

The three large dogs nearly bowled La Chance as they took immediate interest in the wall. _I've wasted my money_, he though disgustedly. Especially when he noticed one of the 'boys' was not. Good lord. Maybe the four legged visitors were smarter than the two-legged one.

"We'll start on the stage," he told the man. "There are a lot of trap doors down there that he is reputed to use.

"We need something to hold the scent."

La Chance took out his handkerchief and wiped it over the rail, and the seats. Bringing it to the dogs, they turned with interest towards it.

Arriving on the stage, La Chance walked along the floor noticing marks. No doubt these were for positions for the current production. After a while of wandering, he turned, hearing Garineau, "That's it, get it."

One of the dogs was pawing the floor. Pushing it aside, La Chance pulled out a pen knife and slid it along the opening between the boards. After experimenting with how deep to delve, and pushing away wet noses, the door finally dropped downward.

La Chance grabbed the edges of the gaping hole, one of the hounds wedged its head under his arm and nearly overbalanced him. Giving way to the beast, he heard it whine as it looked into the darkness. Unease spider-walked cold little fingers up his back.

Finding a lantern wasted more time, but revealed a set of steep stairs. Descending first, he watched the hounds move swiftly down the steps trailing their master. Heads down, they searched the room and found more stairs.

Twice more the search went on, until one stopped and stretched out with it head lowered. Galineau stood watching until La Chance asked, "Did he find something?"

Galineau looked at the dog and then La Chance. "I don't know." He shook the lead. "I guess so."

La Chance passed the lantern into his hands. "I'll look it over," he muttered. Squatting by the hound he saw what could be the edge of a short door. Pushing crates aside, he pushed on the door and it swung outward into another darkness.

"At last," he breathed. Duck-walking through the door after the hound he moved into a bricked passage. Letting the dog decide, they followed it along to transverse under the stage and back to the east side of the building.

La chance had no way of knowing, that was the worst decision he had made that day.

They pressed on in the circle of light provided by the lantern. Occasionally one of the dogs would lift its head a pause, looking at a section of the walls. Doors they came across were only tiny, overfilled storerooms.

They came to a larger room that opened off of the hall, following the hounds that had picked up the pace. Inside the room were pipes and some sort of metal objects sitting atop of them as they came into the room and cross connected to a maze of more pipes.

"What's this? Water?"

La Chance took the lantern and leaned nearer one of the metal boxes. The letters jumped out at him. "Gas!"

With a hard yank he pulled the lantern away, hearing it connect with Garineau. In his haste, La Chance stepped back and tripped over the suddenly alert dogs.

He flung out his hands to cushion his fall. The dogs leaped out of the way, pulling Garineau into him. The lantern hit the stone floor, its light thrown up one wall as it rolled over.

Scrambling to get to the lantern, he reached it with outstretched fingers. La chance managed to set it upright when he heard the voice.

"What are you two fools doing?" The voice was raspy. La Chance pushed Garineau out of the way in an effort to see the Ghost.

Framed in the doorway was a tall man dressed in a dark greatcoat, its collar pulled up around his face. A dark felt hat rested on his head, its large brim covering most of the face.

La Chance climbed to his feet with the lantern. "Searching for you, Monsieur Ghost!" He announced triumphantly.

The dogs moved forward, sniffing at the man. For man he was, living and breathing. The head cocked under the hat. A sound that might have been a laugh broke the air. "The Ghost? He stays to the other side of the cellars. This side is mine."

La Chance felt his stomach lurch. "Who are you?"

A hand whipped out of the coat, unfolding a wallet that revealed a badge of some sort. "Percival dit LaFougère." He paused grandly. "Inspector in the services of the Emperor's Security, Special Detail."

"What?"

A chin appeared, and two very sharp eyes. "They call me the _Man in the Felt Hat_. And you two idiots are under arrest."

The tall man pulled La Chance and Garineau out of the room by the scruff of their necks, dogs in tow. Except for one, who turned to pad silently into the dark corridor with her nose to the floor.


	26. The Debate

**Part Twenty-Four: The Debate**

She searched in the darkness, her nose following the faint trace of the scent. Stopping before a set of stairs, she lowered her head and searched the darkness. Nothing down here. Nothing that smelled of good things. Only sterile stone and mortar, cold under the pads of her paws.

She heard the sound while her nose sought out a whiff of the approaching creature. Remaining still, she watched impassively until the tall, dark shape strode out of the corridor. She whined softly, piteously. Her tail drooped and her head lowered.

The man-thing stopped. He smelled like the scent, and something else. Something that tickled her nose. She whined again.

He stepped forward. "Are you lost, little one?" His voice sounded nice. She sat up, tail thumping the floor.

He made a noise, a breathy noise, and bent down to her, his paw extended. She stretched her neck, her nose learning his scent. Oh, yes! Her tail thumped harder. Oh, yes! She stood, her entire back end moving in response to her tail's arc behind her. "Rrroughr?"

"No performance tonight. I'm sorry you missed the music." He straightened to his full height and turned. "Come along. We'll find you something in the kitchen shall we? Erik would be a poor host if he could not entertain a lady."

She padded along, listening to his voice, her tail held high.

He pushed upon a door, and stepped out into a faintly lit hallway. She dropped her head once again, peeking through the crack in the door. "I suppose you came with a gentleman this evening, hmm?"

Smells, and more smells. There was something dry like the barn, and there was something slick and metal, and an overwhelming smell of the stuff they wrapped their bodies in. Her eyes glimpsed different shapes. She only heard the soft sound of his steps on the board floor that he walked across. "He thought he would find me in the cellars."

He swung open another door. She let her tongue loll, absorbing the water smell and the tang of food. He reached into a cabinet and brought down a dish. The water smell came, and her tail thumped harder. "Erik was ready to retire for the evening when I heard the shouting in the Manager's Office." He paused and looked down at her. "You didn't miss anything, they just tossed him out."

She followed the movement of the dish descending, sticking her tongue gratefully into the cool water. Another one appeared, with some chunks of meat. She lapped up the bites, lips smacking.

"I'm going to leave you by the west door. No doubt, your owner will be searching for you."

She trotted through the door he held open, tail swinging gaily. He was such a nice human. She wished she could stay here.

* * *

La Chance chewed the inside of his lip while Garineau went on with his tirade. "She's a beautiful dog! She's worth more than a hundred francs. If you can't get her out of there, I'm taking this to the gendarmes."

"Not to worry. Those dolts fell for my story about a door being left open for us. I still have the key. I'll just get us back in and you can call your dog."

Garineau balked. "Oh, no. One visit to the Manager's Office was enough. That dit LaFougère couldn't wait to take us to jail. If the dogs hadn't acted like they were going to relieve themselves on the rug…"

"All right," La Chance said reasonably, "I'll find her." Stuffing his hands in his pockets he ambled back to the corner of the building. Incredibly, sitting next to a door as if she were awaiting his arrival was the hound.

* * *

As the curtains came down, the applause filled the auditorium of the Opera. Mirielle glanced at Zacharie de Brie, who sat smiling. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, Mirielle. Did you?"

"Oh, yes. I think it is a wonderful story. I'm so sad that Aida and Radamès were forced to die together in the crypt."

She reached for her handkerchief. Twice during the performance, Aida had achieved such beautiful notes that tears had formed in her eyes. She brushed the linen over them once more, her heart brimming over with a foolish pride for the performers taking their curtain calls.

"Would you care to meet any of the cast? I have my press credentials with me."

"Oh, how delightful, Zacharie." Tucking her handkerchief into her bag, she noticed a pale square peeking from her coat. She reached towards it, lifting what appeared to be an envelope. Barely containing her excitement, she flipped it open.

_Visit Pythia._

"Zacharie, who is Pythia?"

"Pythia? She was the woman who prophesied at the Oracle in Delphi. It's one of the statues here in the Opera. Have you seen it?"

"No, I don't think I have. There are so many statues here though," Mirielle replied. She tucked the note into her bag.

Erik made his way up the cellar steps. Backstage, he wandered unhurried in the shadows. The audience would be leaving the auditorium and retrieving their coats to await their cabs and carriages. The performers would be basking in the attention of the patrons over in the Foyer de Danse. He had sent Mirielle down under the Grand Escalier.

Pausing behind a door he waited for Mirielle to arrive at the niche. Tucked just under the stairs, the bronze of Pythia sat perched atop her column. Leaning forward, her hands poised above the imagined fumes from the Oracle.

Mirielle arrived on the arm of de Brie. "It was done by an artist who signed on to the project named Marcello. This person actually turned out to be Adèle d'Affry, the Duchess Castiglione-Colonna. Garnier admitted it was the only piece that was not originally designed for the Opera."

Mirielle stepped towards the statue. Tiles outlined a space around her on the floor. "It looks as though she was sitting above a pool of water."

"She's said to have sat on a tripod above the Castalian Spring. Fumes would put her into a trance and a priest would come to interpret her words."

Mirielle gave a laugh. "Typical of men."

A voice issued from the statue. "Putting women on pedestals?"

De Brie turned to glance behind them. No one stood in the hallway. Turning a complete circle, he realized the voice must be the Ghost.

"If this Pythia were the recipient of knowledge, why couldn't she just tell it on her own? Why does a man have to step in?" Mirielle retorted. Under her breath she muttered, "And take the credit."

When the voice did not add another comment, Mirielle asked, "Did you see the performance?"

"Of course, my dear. Are you learning anything Monsieur?"

Zacharie put his back to the niche and addressed the air. "Yes. Madame Montalais has been most instructive."

Oh yes, she is, Erik mused.

"Have you always been interested in opera?" Zacharie asked.

"My husband took me to one in Reims. I was in love with it after that." She addressed Erik, "What about you?"

"I've always loved music. I truly began to enjoy opera after coming back to France."

Zacharie leaned on the end of the stair balustrade. "What do you think draws people to opera?"

"The music," Erik replied wistfully.

"It's the story. The words," Mirielle replied raising her hand.

Something caught Zacharie's eye and he nearly slid off of the polished marble as he turned in the direction of the figure moving towards them. A tall man dressed in immaculate evening attire walked regally towards them. His features erased by an expanse of black silk, only his chin was revealed. With a slight nod in his direction, Zacharie saw a flash of gold from the eye holes, reflecting the light from the niche. A superstitious fear sent a tingle up his spine. No man on earth could be born with those strange eyes.

"Music." Erik stated imperiously.

"Words," she urged.

Erik stepped away and cocked his head examining her. "The music is what speaks to the soul."

Mirielle glanced at him, her brows drawn. "The words tell the story, Monsieur," she retorted.

Erik gave a small laugh and folded his arms over his chest. "Music. Words are only the voice of the human being. Another instrument if you will to compliment the music."

Mirielle walked past Zacharie, her steps light and her hips swaying. "But words are the voice of the heart. An ancient Chinese philosopher wrote that."

Zacharie took advantage of the silence as the Ghost and Mirielle examined one another. He sensed a lover's quarrel about to take place. Climbing to his feet he bowed to her, "Thank you." He turned and nodded to the Ghost, "And you, Monsieur. I have learned so much about the Opera tonight. Should I call a cab for us Mirielle?"

"I can make sure that the lady gets home," Erik told the young man.

"It's no problem, Zacharie," Mirielle added.

With regal nods, the pair dismissed him. He claimed his hat from the steps and began the climb up the stairs.

Erik strolled over to the stairs. Setting a foot on one, he leaned his arms across his bent knee and regarded Mirielle. He began humming a tune that he was sure she would recognize. Her face betraying her curiosity, she came towards him. Half way through the tune, he began to sing out loud. Rather than the words that accompanied the little country ballad, he substituted the rhyme of a bawdy drinking song.

Mirielle hugged her arms around herself and smirked.

"You see," he told her. "The words didn't change the music."

Her lips formed a moue and she raised an eyebrow. "But doesn't that prove my point?" She stepped behind the column of stone that supported the vaulted ceiling. Peering around the edge she asked, "If I sang to you the blandest bars of music, but professed passion for you, wouldn't my words be more important?"

"Mysterious girl," he teased. "Prove it,"

Mirielle stepped around the corner and stopped.

"I would not deny that words have the ability to hold sway over us all." Erik strolled in a circle around her. "But the world is filled by words: spoken, written," he paused next to her, their shoulders nearly touching. "Whispered."

"I can do it with one."

"One?" Erik purred. He brushed a hand down her arm.

"One word," she repeated.

"One alone," he agreed.

"Very well." She pursed her lips, preparing to speak.

Go ahead, Erik thought. You're going to say _mask _aren't you, little rogue.

She opened her mouth, but looked down quickly, her voice lost in the motion.

"What?" He cocked a head to the side.

She glanced up again. This time he caught the sound of an 's' as she turned away.

"Again, Madame," he prompted. Stepping as close to her as he dared.

She glanced over his shoulder. Taking in a breath she lowered her head, her eyes alight as she glanced up through her lashes. "Sensuous," she breathed softly.

She blinked slowly, a faint smile on her lips. Saucy wench. Little houri. How much more of an invitation could she give him? He was losing this battle, but there was a conquest yet to be savored.

His mouth swept down to hers. He caressed the back of her neck with his strong fingers; his other hand found its way to her waist. Pulling her body against his he reveled in her lush warmth. Soft, so soft he wanted to sink into her. He wanted to be swallowed up by her simple surrender.

Mirielle felt him bring the kiss to a close. She opened her eyes to meet his glowing golden ones. Her hands moved to circle his waist. "Dear man, you have your own box do you not?"

He snatched up her hand and pulled her through the halls, weaving passed mirrors and doors until they climbed to the box. He locked the door behind them, and took a step backwards, leading her towards the chairs.

She backed against the wall. "Come here."

Erik lowered his lips to hers again. Nipping gently at her lower lip, his fingers followed the outer curve of her breast. He felt her soft gasp. Satisfaction pierced him, making his blood roar in response. His hands roamed slowly, finding and revisiting the spots that left her sighing softly against his mouth.

Her hands moved as well, dropping to his hips to pull him closer into her.

He could only stare at her face. It seemed that all the blood supply from his head had departed for another region of his body. "I've missed you." He brushed a hand over her hair.


	27. Prophetess

**Part Twenty-five: Prophetess**

Mirielle turned her face towards his hand. "Oh God, Erik. Your voice….I can't…"

She breathed heavily, her breasts rising and falling outlined by the lace edge of her dress's décolletage. Her hands pushed up under his coat and settled on his hips, pulling him closer.

He slid his hands behind her, kneading her marvelous rounded rump. She was doing something with her skirt, lifting it. Catching hold, he assisted her. It bunched around her waist, but bared her warm thighs. As his hand brushed the curved line of her leg, Erik knew he was lost.

He pushed up under her petticoat, twisting, exploring until he found an edge. Yanking on the lace he tore it. "Erik," she pleaded, shivering.

With the difference in their heights, he instinctively lifted her. Her nimble fingers moved between them.

His face in her neck, he nipped her. He hadn't meant to, but sheathed within her exquisite body, primal urges took over. What she offered he took thoughtlessly, urged on by her moans. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. Her face seemed to glow.

She released a deep moan. He felt the change inside her, heard the pleading note in her voice. Her body drew him to his own pleasure amidst an explosion of blinding light behind his eyes.

He realized he was shivering. Holding her, he pressed kisses to her face. She relaxed, and he let her down to stand, holding her to steady her.

Erik brushed a soft kiss on her neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Her head rolled to one side. "I'm not," she whispered in return. A smile spread across her face. "You were wild. I loved it." She ran warm fingers around his neck.

They took a moment to straighten their clothes, and put one of her combs back in her hair.

"I hadn't meant to attack you."

She giggled. "Why ever not? Did you have something else in mind?"

"I wanted to see you." He traced the curve of her jaw.

"Here I am."

His fingers pushed up to brush her hair from the shell of her ear. "Why? You could have half the men in Paris on their knees before you."

"Only half?" she teased. Her eyes drifted closed. Her face turned away. "I'm falling in love with you."

Erik's breath left him. "You can't. I'm not a man to be loved."

"Do you believe that, or is there another reason?"

"I've done things."

"Persia?" His eyes turned from a tawny gold to a fiery one.

He rested a hand on the wall next to her head. "Nadir?"

"He thinks you are looking for redemption of some sort."

"And you are going to bring it to me?"

His voice had turned harsh. It piqued her temper. "Evidently what ever you are searching for your little soprano could not bring to you."

Erik pushed off of the wall and stepped away from her. "She could have but she would not. She loved someone else."

"I'm sorry for you then. You must really love her."

"I taught her. I showed her how to reach down inside and voice every passion and every humiliation in life. I would have taken her soul if she would have believed in me." If she had continued to look upon him as something beautiful.

He wasn't free of her. "What did you go to the Matchmaker for?"

He drew himself up to his full height. "Companionship."

Mirielle had begun shaking. His easy reply made her heart lurch and her stomach turn over. "I've too many years left to spend them as some man's companion or nurse. I don't have it in me to be a mistress either. I want to be loved."

She turned and yanked at the door. It refused to open, and she stepped aside as she felt him behind her. He'd locked it and had to open it. She pushed through it and hurried down the hall, tears blurring the lamps she passed.

She ran to the front foyer, pushing doors open until she flung herself out into the cold December air. Her steps slowed as her feet carried her towards her apartment. The night air numbed her face and stung her fingers. Her tears slid down her face to drop to the streets of Paris.

* * *

She'd felt betrayed. It had been etched in the disbelief in her eyes. Erik wished he could erase that moment from his memory.

She'd been honest. She'd told him before what she was hoping for. He'd left her once, but then returned holding his hope in his hands.

She'd kissed him, and let him take her to his bed. What could she see in him that kept bringing her back? Whatever she had seen would be fading now. A sputtering candle waiting for the final darkness.

He stood staring at the door, more than a little ashamed of himself. Christine had been a madness in his blood. A tempestuous, wild passion that had never really existed. A sick man's fleeting dream.

Mirielle had come willingly. Simple things pleased her, loving moments had made her happy. Now he had killed her. Murdered that part of her that made her alive. He'd sacrificed her in an effort to protect her from what he never wanted her to see.

Why did it hurt so badly?

He jerked open the door to the box, hitting the wall with a resounding bang. His heart raced in time with his footsteps. Door after door pushed aside until he was at the niche below the stairs.

Erik stared dully at the bronze of the Pythia. "Prophetess… Mirielle was right. Words are more important."

He turned away, finding his way back to his home. Beneath the arched ceiling of the vault that held the lake, he pushed the boat away from the quay. Poling out to the center, he approached a bright spot on the water.

Turning mask heavenward, he saw through the grate above and the bright, crystalline light of the moon.

"My light of the moon," he whispered in a breaking voice.

Snatching the pole out of the water, he hurled it at the wall of the vault. It rebounded off in a sharp explosion like a gunshot, falling into the water splintered.

He felt the sound echo in his chest. The sound of a heart breaking.

Erik sat in the boat for hours, until it finally pushed close to the stones near the house. Pulling it ashore, he entered his house shedding his coat. At the end of the hall he swung open the door. Lying down on the bed he pulled the pillow to his face. It still carried the faint smell of her perfume.

* * *

Zacharie glanced up from his morning coffee to see Mathurin La Chance walk into the café.

"I thought I'd find you here Zacharie." La Chance lifted a hand for the girl at the counter to see. He pointed at Zacharie's cup. "Has the Velvet Widow introduced you to her Ghost yet?"

For once, Zacharie could toss out his own quip. "As a matter of fact, I have seen him." He covered his smile by lifting his coffee cup to his lips.

"You are joking," La Chance replied in a bored tone.

"No. I'm not. He was at the performance last night."

"What?" The blood drained from La Chance's face. "Last night? Did you get a good look at him? Does he attend every performance?" La Chance paused. "You couldn't have seen him. It would be all the front page of the _Epoque _if you had."

"I wasn't there to write an article on him. I was there with Madame Montalais, enjoying the performance that your escapade in front of the Managers earned her."

"Will she be returning tonight?"

"I don't know. I'm not her social director. She was just giving me some help with opera. I've taken Bérnard's column. I review the opera now."

"Congratulations," La Chance mused. "Maybe you should consider doing an interview with the Ghost. What does he look like?"

Zacharie looked frankly at La Chance. "Tall. Stately. And his eyes glow like a cat's."

La Chance examined the man's face. "Don't tell me you're superstitious?"

"I'd be glad to interview the Ghost." He sat his cup in its saucer and pushed it away. "But only on his terms." Retrieving his hat, he left La Chance to ponder this new information.

* * *

The shop was busy, making the hours slip by faster. Mirielle pulled down the blinds in the front window and stepped outside of the shop door. Walking quickly, she stopped at the market to pick up vegetables. The crowd was thinning, eager to return to their homes for dinner.

She'd walked to the post office at lunch. The slim rectangular box with the diaphanous harem outfit was now on its way back to the man who had purchase it. She'd take the blue dress back to Madame Ouvard's. Within a few days, all traces of her time with Erik would be gone.

* * *

Nadir had seen that Erik was not in the box. The boat was across the lake, so he doubled back up to the cellar and made his way clumsily through the trap door into the mirrored chamber. Bumping along the walls, he found the switch that Erik had revealed to him. The mirror whispered open into the house.

He checked the bedroom and the kitchen. He was tempted to call out, but the pall of silence bespoke a sad change in the house. Going down the hall he saw the door to the bedroom was open. Pushing it open slowly, he saw Erik lying on the bed.

With hesitant steps he approached. "Erik?"

He lay on his side, deathly still. An arm snaked around a pillow.

"_Allah_…" Nadir prayed.


	28. Shaking Spears

**A/N: Greetings all...don't fear for Erik. Nadir to the rescue! **

**Part Twenty-six: Shaking Spears**

Erik spoke, too numb to react. "She's gone."

"What happened?" Eyes closed, Nadir dreaded the answer.

"We quarreled. She told me she was falling in love with me. I told her I was looking for companionship."

"And that was not enough?"

"You were right. She wanted to be loved." Erik arose, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Nadir leaned against the dresser. The silence descended again. He didn't know whether to leave Erik to his delusions or drag him up by the collar and shake him. "Why do you persist in believing that you don't deserve happiness?"

"Can you forget those many hours in Mazandarin?"

Nadir cleared his throat. "Well, I need a glass of water. I'll get you one and we can figure out what asinine thing you did this evening and how you are going to repair it."

Erik bowed his head. "You can't repair this, daroga. I've ruined my chances for that. I cut her when she told me of her true feelings."

Nadir snorted. "I've no doubt you ruined her evening. And why did you cut her? To send her away from you, to protect her from yourself?"

Erik nodded stiffly.

"Will you admit you love her?" Nadir watched him, but got no answer. "Do you know that what you did shows that you do? You wanted to protect her at all cost to your own chance for happiness." When he received no answer he stepped forward and cuffed Erik on the side of his head.

In a smooth motion, Erik was on his feet with Nadir's fist in his hand. The air shivered with deadly promise.

"That is the Erik I know. Not a shrinking ninny who weeps into a pillow."

"I'm not weeping. I'm just pensive," Erik growled.

"You are the only man who could make wretchedness a position to aspire to. Are you going to stop this nonsense and let yourself enjoy your life, or should I convert to Christianity and start lighting candles to Erik, patron saint of the obstinate? If you were any more set upon being willful, you'd grow asses' ears and bray."

There was a sullen reticence in the lines of Erik's body. "I'm an old fool. I don't even know what a normal life is."

"It's terribly overrated," Nadir answered. "There are only a handful of things that make life bearable, and love is one of them."

"Is passion another one?" Erik jibed.

"You always did like your sweets."

If it were possible for a blank expanse of material to be any more devoid of articulation, Erik's mask would have expressed it. Nadir told him, "You said you eat your ice cream slowly."

"What?"

"You know, the belly dancer. I told you you'd be in the mood by the time your ice cream melted."

"Is that derived from some Persian allegory I've forgotten?"

Nadir looked briefly as if his cheeks were darker. "I wouldn't know. I did not make a habit of spending my evenings in debauchery."

"I said allegory not orgy. I meant a metaphor, a figure of speech."

"My French isn't that good. I'm afraid you lost me."

Erik sighed. "There is a remarkably short journey."

"Be that as it may, I am not going to allow you to wallow in this grief. You chose to go to a matchmaker, Erik. Did you not expect to find a woman?"

The glowing eyes looked around the room, as if the answer were somewhere on the walls. "I didn't think it would happen like this."

"How is that? Are things progressing too quickly for you?"

"Yes and no."

"What did you expect?"

"I suppose I thought it would be like an opera. Some grand story about two people who love each other so passionately, so desperately." He glanced over at the Persian, who wore a quizzical look. "What's wrong, daroga?"

"Are we still trying to communicate in one language? Because if we are, I think you have not been paying attention to the operas you have been watching."

Erik walked out of the bedroom, irritation making his normally smooth movements jerky. "Of course I'm talking opera."

Nadir followed. "As I remember the ones you and I sat through seemed to end in tragic deaths for the lovers. It never pays to be a woman in an opera. They are either killed or abandoned."

"Ah, you did fall asleep during _Faust _didn't you," Erik accused. "He made a deal with the devil to be with the woman he loved."

Nadir sputtered. "Don't hand me that twaddle. The man sold his soul to be young again and recapture his _wasted_ life."

Erik bristled. "Don José in _Carmen_."

"He tossed aside a _perfectly respectable woman_ in favor of a faithless temptress."

"Mozart!" Erik said triumphantly.

"I will agree that his are farcical, but still the women suffer in them."

"How so?"

"_Cosi Fan Tuti_. Aren't they trying to prove that women are faithless?"

Erik opened his mouth but Nadir pressed on. "_Luisa Miller_-poisoned by the man she loves due to a false letter. _Manon_- sentenced to be deported. She's dying when Des Grieux finds her and mourns their love. _La Juive_-Rachel dies for her love of a Christian. _Othello_-he strangles his innocent wife because of the machinations of a jealous man. _Rigoletto_…"

Erik stood before the sofa, hands jammed in his trouser pockets. "All right. You've made your point."

"No, I haven't. We are talking stories, not real life. If you are waiting for some grand passion to come sweep you off of your feet, you will have a long time to wait. What happens on the stage is art not life.

"Life is a struggle against surly shopkeepers, pushy creditors and overbearing employers. It is hours spent in endless tedium that saps what strength you have to face another day.

"You are attempting to compress years of experience in love into a matter of what, three months?"

"No one has ever wanted to share my life," Erik replied.

"You're wrong. That woman wants you," Nadir explained. "Although only Allah knows why. You are such an invertebrate creature."

Erik glanced at his companion. "I'm a what?"

"You know, persistent, unruly…"

"You mean incorrigible."

Nadir shrugged. "You're probably that as well."

Erik grew uncomfortable under the Persian's piercing gaze. "Well…spit it out, daroga. I'm a cad. I did what I needed to, though." He squared his shoulders. "I protected her."

Nadir's eyes narrowed. "No. You didn't. You protected yourself."

"I sent her away," Erik thundered. "I denied her so that she would hate me."

"No," Nadir persisted. "You took the blade out of her hand."

"What blade?"

"The one that every one who loves gives to their lover. The ability to bring them pain. With the deepest of love comes the greatest ability to hurt that person."

"She would have learned what I truly was."

"Yes, but you could take that couldn't you? You would expect that day to come." Nadir paced before him. "But the day of some argument, or some tension between you, you could not have born her feelings towards you. You feared her anger, or her resentment. Or her leaving you."

"I'm not afraid of her," Erik grumbled. His citrine eyes had turned a flat, hard color.

A few months before, that tone in the man's voice would have sent Nadir quavering in fear. "Certainly," he said easily.

"I'm a man. I would have put her in her place." Righteous ire raced through Erik's stance.

"Absolutely," Nadir bobbed his head.

"No hen would ever rule this rooster," Erik spat disgustedly.

"Of course." Nadir attempted to look scandalized.

"Damn that female!" Erik exploded. "If she thinks she's going to attempt to wind me around her little finger she has a lot to learn about Erik!"

Nadir snorted. "Cheeky thing isn't she." He cast his gaze heavenward. "Women."

Erik made an inarticulate growl that sent the hairs on the Persian's neck to attention. He held up a placating hand. "Now, Erik. She's only a female. A man can keep a woman in line, but a true man does it with a gentle touch, if you get my meaning."

Erik returned the growl again, and Nadir resisted looking behind him to see if a tiger had entered the room. The rumbling pitch of Erik's voice bounced in and out of the corners.

Nadir slapped a reassuring hand onto Erik's shoulder. "I have every faith in you, my friend. Show that little vixen who is her master!"

Nadir watched Erik storm towards the water closet, muttering epithets and calling down dire consequences for Mirielle if she persisted in these games. Like all warriors, he was rattling his spear in an attempt to inspire fear. Erik's worst enemy was himself.

Nadir gave in to the smile that he had hidden through their exchange. "What fools these mortal beasts." Wasn't it that Shaking-spear fellow who wrote that?


	29. Chapter 29

**Part Twenty-seven: Lost Soul**

Erik stormed through the house. Flinging clothing on the bed he reached into his wardrobe and dresser and pulled clean ones out. Stomping back down the hall to the water closet he began running a bath.

Nadir sat down and picked up the newspaper from the previous day. With his glasses perched on his nose, he read while listening to the approach and retreat of Erik's angry steps. After a few more trips and the sound of the taps shutting off in the bathroom, he dropped the paper to see Erik standing in front of him.

"What should I do? She won't be at her apartment; she'll be at her job." He blinked. "I don't remember where she said she was working now."

Nadir folded the paper and pulled off his glasses. "Investigations were my forte, remember? I'll find out where she works and send word to you."

"Soon," there was almost a pleading in Erik's voice.

"Certainly. I'll leave you a note with that pithy statue."

"Pythia," Erik corrected. How oddly fitting. It had been at the statue their evening had started. Perhaps in the unseen wreaths of fumes from the oracle, Mirielle's return would be foretold.

* * *

Catherine had just enough time this morning to get her errands run before returning to work after lunch. Checking her handbag for her errant coin purse, she wandered around the apartment again. It wasn't on the kitchen table, or the dresser, or on the table next to the sofa. What had she done with it now?

A knock on the door interpreted her trip to check in the bedroom once again. She pulled the door open, expecting to see the landlord. Instead there was an impeccably attired and quite astonishingly looking gentleman.

He doffed his hat and smiled, a gentle curving of his lips below a thick, dark mustache. "Madame? Do I have the honor of addressing one of Madame Montalias' acquaintances?"

Catherine could feel herself staring. Not only was this dark-eyed stranger attractive, but he had an intriguing voice. Slightly accented, it rolled up and down her senses and raised goose bumps on her arms.

She might have told him anything to hear him speak again, but little bells chimed in her mind. This could be another of those nosey reporters. What a shame if it was. "Yes. Who are you, Monsieur?"

"Abd al-Majiid Junaibi Nadir Khan."

She planted a hand on the door frame and smiled. "Ah, you are Jules?"

He blinked, but smiled. "Yes. Mirielle said she would never be able to master my full name-so she calls me Jules." He shifted his hat in his hands. "I was hoping to catch her. Perhaps you can tell me where she is now employed?"

"You are a friend of her gentleman aren't you?"

"Yes. He committed quite a gaffe their last evening together," his lips twisting in amusement. "He is not very well behaved, I'm afraid."

Catherine let out a giggle. "He'd better learn his social graces then, or the grace of God is what he'll require. Mirielle was most upset."

He looked pained for a moment. "Did she weep?"

"Yes."

"Did she raise her voice?"

"Oh, yes. For quite a while." Catherine rolled her eyes.

"Did she…clean?"

Catherine rested a hand upon her bosom. "Ah…how did you know?"

The man with eyes like jewels smiled. She smiled back. Suddenly it seemed very warm in the apartment.

"May I ask where she is employed?"

"Aubriot's Dress Shop. It is on the Rue du Chemin-Vert."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle…?"

"Jardaux," she replied.

He bowed and left. Catherine closed the door and leaned against it. She raised a hand to her cheek, she felt flushed.

Nadir went out the building's front door, whistling as he joined the denizens of Paris. The vision of Mademoiselle Jardaux's smiling eyes remained with him.

* * *

Mirielle kept the smile pasted upon her face. This was the customer's fourth attempt at trying on a day dress for a trip to the races. Each she selected was discarded and the search began again. She returned to the dressing room, glancing at the second dress and decided to give it another try.

Strutting to the mirror the woman's lips thinned. "I don't like the bustle."

The ticking of the shop's clock was like a hammer behind Mirielle's eyes. If she didn't get this woman to pick a dress, she might be forced to stay late again. She sighed inwardly and walked to the edge of the woman's vision. "But look," she said in a surprised tone. "What an elegant silhouette you present when you are turned like that."

The woman turned towards the mirror, eyes shrewdly taking in the shape of the dress. "I suppose it does look…"

"Sophisticated," Mirielle supplied. "The color is current, but the decorations are so understated, they tease the eye. Subtle."

"Subtle," the woman agreed.

"A woman of character is subtle," Mirielle whispered conspiratorially. She held up the tag with the price written upon it. "And frugal."

That seemed to do the trick, for the woman finally agreed to buy the dress. Mirielle smiled pleasantly and let loose a gusting sigh as the curtain closed behind the woman. At least Monsieur Aubriot would be pleased with the sale.

She finished placing the other dresses back upon their hangers, smoothing pleats and ruffles when she felt as if a breeze had moved over her neck. Turning towards the front of the shop, she noted that the bell had not rung announcing another customer.

The tall dark shape she had come to know so intimately filled the door. His glowing gold eyes bored into hers. "Madame." His rich voice slid over her.

Mirielle swallowed. The mere sight of him had set little things wriggling nervously inside her, but his voice had made her light headed. "Monsieur."

A curtain parted and the other woman stepped out, glancing at the vision that captured Mirielle's attention. "Oh my God," she sighed in a breathy voice. Placing a hand to her bosom she stepped backward.

The breathless anticipation in the shop was broken by a creaking sound. Erik's fingers had curled into fists, his dark leather gloves protesting faintly. Mirielle's eyes were devoid of any emotion. He'd hoped for some spark. Perhaps anger could ignite one. "I require a _companion_ for Saturday's performance," he purred.

Mirielle's blood had started to heat under that unwavering gaze, but now boiled in response to his witty choice of words. And they said women were catty. "Maybe you should contact the Matchmaker. I believe they have enough women registered that you could find one."

The customer gaped open mouthed at Mirielle's retort.

Well. The first volley, and as of yet no one was lying bleeding. He'd sensed a feisty streak in the woman; he intended to capitalize upon it. "That will not do," he retorted airily. "I wish someone with a background in opera."

"I've been to a play once." The breathy comment caused both Erik and Mirielle to turn glares upon the customer.

Mirielle spoke through her teeth. "Mademoiselle was selecting a dress," she let the comment hang.

"I'm done," the woman supplied hastily. "I'll take the fuchsia one with the dark trim."

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. I though you decided upon the light cream dress."

Erik shot a glance at the silly creature who stood staring dreamily at him. Pitching his voice low he told her, "You would look divine in cream, pippin."

Mirielle rolled her eyes heavenward. At least he hadn't called her one of the pet names he'd used with her.

The younger woman giggled. "I have no engagements on Saturday." She grasped her hands behind her, sticking out her bosom as she did.

Mirielle's mouth dropped open. The little strumpet was young enough to be Erik's daughter. She had half a mind to switch tags and overcharge the little hussy.

Noting the burning glance Mirielle shot the younger woman; Erik decided there were one too many people in this conversation. "Mademoiselle is most kind. But I had hoped to persuade this charming woman to join me."

Mirielle turned away from the two of them to prepare the bill. "People in Hades hope for a cool breeze." Her penmanship suffered from her anger.

Erik heard her terse reply. "I deserve that and much more. What I told you was for your own protection."

The last thing Mirielle wanted to do was look at him. Hearing his voice again, knowing he was here was difficult enough to endure. She finished writing out the bill and turned to her customer.

The young woman stood frozen, eyes staring off sightlessly into space.

"Take the bill, child. It requires your signature." Erik's voice was pitched low, oddly lilting, it raised the hairs at the back of Mirielle's neck as she watched the woman turn with a slight smile and reach for her pen.

"Say 'Thank you', pippin," Erik instructed.

"Thank you," came the woman's breathy reply.

"I must go or I'll be late," Erik added.

Like a life-sized marionette the woman shook her head. "I must go or I'll be late."

Mirielle cast a glance at Erik who leaned against the other end of the counter looking at her rather than the customer, his fox-eyes boring into hers. Oh yes, a sly old fox. "Sending off the girl when she volunteered to go to the Opera?"

His jaw flexed, causing a ripple on the surface of the dark satin of the mask. "She only wants to be seen by Paris society." He lifted a hand and dropped it. "I'd be the carriage that conveys her."

It sounded so sad and so true, but she still wanted to dispute it. "Perhaps she wanted something else. How will you know if you always push people away?"

He lifted his hand and the woman stepped forward with hers raised. He placed a light kiss on her knuckles and led her to the shop door. "We'll send your dress to you tomorrow, child." With that he released her and watched her step onto the sidewalk.

With his back to her, Mirielle heard him say, "Like a familiar song: Same words but different voices. It always tells the same tale."

She wasn't a perfect person. She'd like to think she at least had learned to be positive in her way of looking at life. How many times had this happened to him to make him this way?

"Since I was nine." His reply startled her; it followed so closely upon the heels of her thoughts. He turned. "May I escort you home?"

It would seem terribly petty to refuse. "It will take me a few minutes to close the shop."

"Take your time, my dear," Erik replied. "I can wait."

She tagged the box with the young woman's dress in it for Monsieur Aubriot to take care of in the morning. Going to the back of the shop she retrieved her bag and her coat. Pushing aside the curtain that separated the shop floor from the back, she took a moment to observe Erik. Although he seemed to watch the street outside, there was no reflection in the glass of his mask or his eyes.

"How do you do that?" she asked impulsively. The golden reflections appeared in the glass, trained on her shape where it reflected. "How do you make your eyes disappear?"

The golden orbs shrank to a pinpoint, winking out like an extinguished flame. "A trick of the light," he replied. He looked back at her over his shoulder, the dark expanse of his mask featureless.

"But, how?" She approached him. "They say eyes are…"

"Windows of the soul. Some windows are not meant to be seen into," he finished. The silence between them stretched. He appeared to be unwilling to reveal anything more.

She shrugged on her coat, lifting the collar close around her face. She caught his flickering gaze again. "Does having unusual eyes mean you have an unusual soul as well?"

The tawny orbs moved, his gaze roaming over the surface of her face. "I lost my soul once." He stammered, "I w-would like to lose it again."

The shift in his speech, although slight, was jarring. Erik was always prepared with a retort or an opinion, a barb, or an observation. He rarely spoke in terms of his feelings. It made her want to weep for what she imagined it must have cost him.

She stepped close to him, so he looked down upon her. "If I trip over one in the dark some night, should I pick it up, this lost soul?"

"I'd be very appreciative if you did." He sounded tired. "It's gotten very tattered now."

Mirielle pursed her lips. "I can darn socks. Would that help?"

"There might not be much left to work with." He lapsed into silence again.

"I don't think it's a matter of sizes, is it? Souls just are."

"I think of it as shades. Mine's dark, Mirielle. Dark with the stains of old blood. I was an assassin. You can't see the eyes of an assassin in the dark."

He turned and opened the shop door, allowing a chill mist to roll in, swept inside by the movements of the breeze outside.

Mirielle tugged at her collar once again, pulling it closer to her neck which seemed suddenly chilled. Even her fingers felt stiff in the sudden shift in the temperature.

"My dear," Erik prompted with a bow and a hand towards the door. His eyes blazed as he stood watching her.

For a reason she could not fathom, warmth infused her body. It started deep inside and pulsed towards her fingers. She felt relaxed, as if she were melting like the icicles that hung from the overhang above the door.

"You did that, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mirielle."

"You are a very strange man."

A smile sliced below the edge of his mask. "I know."


	30. Reflections

**A/N: Uploading was busy, so I apologize for this not getting posted sooner. Thanks so much for your reviews. If everyone who read sent ONE then we crazy authors wouldn't be standing on chairs and tying ropes to our ceiling fans... **

**Part Twenty-eight: Reflections**

Erik pulled the shop door closed. Mirielle stood poised with a key but he rattled the handle to show her it was secured. She stared at him a moment, then put her key into her bag. Turning, she started for the corner of the street. Erik took up his place to her right, shielding her from the curb as a gentleman was expected to do.

The few remaining people on the street hurried past. The work day done, they headed home for their evening meals. "Does your day usually end this late?" he inquired, filling in the quite between them.

"I have stayed late a number of times just to accommodate a customer."

He nodded. Grasping the brim of his hat, he tipped it lower to a couple that came abreast of them. Passing another shop, Mirielle turned to glance in the window.

"What is it?" Erik asked.

"Nothing. Only looking at our competition." She told a small lie. For some absurd reason she wanted to see her own reflection, half afraid that she looked a sight, and that the younger woman in the shop was more attractive. _You're old_ the niggling voice in her head whispered. A few strands of grey, the little lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, the slight sag under her chin that had suddenly appeared one day. This soft face did not belong to her, but had stubbornly refused to find another owner.

Erik kept pace with her, thankful that she hadn't turned into the banshee again and tossed him out of the shop. He moved so they could skirt a pile of slush that clung stubbornly to a shaded spot on the pavement. He kept close to Mirielle though, soaking in her presence.

"How are the performances of _Aida_ doing? Is there a large turnout for it?"

He hemmed and considered his answer. Small talk at least meant that she was communicating with him. "Public opinion has helped it along. Poor _Carmen_ never had a chance." He glanced along the street as they walked. "Would you like to see it again?" He waited an agonizing eternity for her response.

She nodded after a moment, crossing her arms before her. "I did enjoy it. Zacharie was almost entranced by the costumes. I think that young man shall hie off to Egypt on a steamer some day."

"You sound wistful."

A smile played on her lips. "I'd like to travel." She cast a glance at him, "You said you traveled.

"Yes, but not in the way that most people prefer. I was kept in a cage." He heard her sharp intake of breath.

Her stomach knotted. Nine years old, he'd said, and a cage? No wonder he did not trust the girl in the shop. She hugged herself tighter.

"They did eventually allow me out. I learned ventriloquism, and played music, and there was my voice." He glanced at her, her eyes betraying her thoughts. "I used it on the young woman in the shop."

The bottom of her stomach dropped, her steps faltered. "When you sang to me," she breathed. "You said you wouldn't unless I asked you to."

Erik glanced in front and behind them, stopping to turn to her. "I would not ever use it on you for my own gain." His eyes flickered inside the mask, an old pain revisiting his memories.

"Why use it on anyone?"

He let the old anger find its way into his voice. "There were others who wished to exploit my abilities. They paid for their duplicity with their lives." He held her gaze, lingered, willing her to understand fully how terrible his life had been. How terrible he had been.

"I used it on Christine. I made her trust me, listen to me, believe in me. The only thing I could not do was make her love me."

He reached for her elbow. "It's different with you." He felt a fissure in his soul. It longed to fly free and unburdened before her, with her. "You offer what I had despaired of ever finding and I can't for the life of me understand how."

A thrill raced through her. He'd felt it too, that dizzying feeling inside the body that bespoke of love and longing for another. There had been more between them than lust and the excitement of the pursuit.

Erik saw the light in her eyes. "You mystify me."

Mirielle blinked. "Only because you make everything such a puzzle. Some things just _are_. Philosophers have spent centuries pondering life and the stars and what makes one person fall in love and not the other." She smiled demurely, "Some things can't be helped." She saw the change in his eyes. "Like that," she pointed at his face. "You are such a skeptic. You can't help but question what I say and stir things up. Mischief maker," she accused. "I believe you cannot resist the urge to create trouble."

"Me?" he asked lightly. "I never make trouble. It finds its way to the correct recipients."

She clucked her tongue. "I don't believe that for one instant you sly old fox."

"I'm a fox am I?" he teased.

She considered his pleased demeanor. "Sometimes you're a hound," she retorted primly. Now he genuinely beamed. Just like a man.

Erik leaned closer. "A divine woman stirs that in me."

Well, she thought, he needn't use that _voice_ when his words made things start fluttering inside of her. "Flatterer," she retorted.

"Not at all, Mirielle." He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "You make me wish I were a rabbit."

"Oh," she gasped. "Wicked man." She hardly kept the laughter out of her voice.

"Mmmm. Now there's a title I've worn many a time," he agreed. He glanced at her face. "Your cheeks look flushed, my dear."

"I believe that you are deliberately being indecent."

"And you are quite enjoying it, saucy creature that you are," he growled. He pulled her towards the curb. "Your gift came back today. When was the last time you indulged in a little scandalous behavior?"

Mirielle's fluttering began to swell to trembling. "Several times." The thought of that diaphanous dark material sliding over her body made her knees unsteady.

He held up a hand for a cab. She heard one approaching, feeling her breath catch. "Recently," she admitted. She could almost feel his warm strong fingers running along the waist of the trousers, sliding them off.

His countenance shaded by the brim of his hat made his golden eyes seem to ask what his lips had not. There was a challenge written in their depths.

"Mirielle?"

"Yes?"

The clop of hooves halted next to them. "I believe I shall abduct you." His eyes bored into hers. "Would you prefer it before or after dinner?"

"I don't think I could eat," she said before she could halt her tongue.

His smile grew at the edge of his mask. "Oh, good."

* * *

Mathurin La chance checked the number on the door. He tapped lightly at it and looked up and down the deserted street. He heard the occupant undoing the bolt. It swung open to reveal the front of the office. "Monsieur Queval?" he prompted. 

Jean Queval was short and wiry. A shock of white hair perched atop his head like a bird. His eyes were a pale color behind his spectacles. "Come in," he said in a remarkable baritone that contrasted with his slight figure.

Desks sat facing the walls which were plastered with drawings and charts. Cabinets crowded every spare inch of one side, while two enormous drafting tables filled the center of the room. Queval led him to one of the tables, running a hand over a print. "This is a transverse of the cuve or substructure of the Garnier."

La Chance examined the fine lines, drawn with remarkable precision. Queval went to a filling cabinet and withdrew a sheaf of papers, laying them upon the print. "This part of the foundations was to be started at the end of excavations in December of 1861." He offered La Chance a document. "According to this report, a tributary of the Seine was discovered at the sight."

"Water from the river?"

"No, just the opposite, it comes from a spring and flows under the Opera."

"How is that possible?"

Queval picked up more documents and spread them along the table. "From what I gather, this discovery posed quite a problem. Not only did the water have to be removed, but the time and money spend on it would cause serious problems for the building's schedule. Monsieur Garnier had already had plans for the iron work for the fly tower to be erected, and since it and the dome support were critical, the project might have been set back for years."

Moving along beside the man, La Chance glimpsed personal letters along with drawings.

Queval stopped, lifting an envelope. "I came across this once I started tracing the documents about the substructure. It appears that Garnier exchanged correspondence with a newly arrived architect who proposed a solution to the tributary." He offered the letter to La Chance who took it carefully from his hand.

Mathurin shoved his gloves into his pocket and withdrew the letter. Setting the envelope aside, he smoothed out the pages and leaned over to read. The date was January of 1862, and the man proposed to subcontract work that would provide a double foundation that would channel the water passed the central foundations preventing damage from the moisture.

Queval pointed at the large print. "In February, eight wells were sunk with steam pumps installed to draw off the water so that the casements could be put in place by a masonry subcontractor. By June the contractor, A. Violet, began pouring the foundations which started at the front and progressed to the back of the structure."

La Chance glanced at the letter. Written in sharp strokes with a backwards slant, the signature read _E. Vachon. _"Who is this man?"

Queval smiled. "I cannot find him in any of the lists of registered artisans, masons, contractors or architects."

A frisson of excitement ran through La Chance. He re-read the letter again. Could it be the Ghost was actually this man? It would explain his intimate familiarity with the Opera itself. "Why?"

"Monsieur?"

La Chance glanced at Queval. "I'm sorry, just speaking out loud." He motioned towards the drawings, "Show me everything."

An hour later, Queval finished. "Well, it was designed with five cellars, but as you can see on this print that some 12 meters below the ground is where the water channel lies."

"But it's pumped out now."

The other man shook his head. "No, the spring still fills the channel."

"An underground river? You believe it is still there?"

"Of course, Monsieur. I have heard two men verify it." He paused and shrugged. "I think I could find it."

The suggestions hung in the air only briefly. "Are you busy this evening?" La Chance asked. As the other man's face brightened, he withdrew the copy of the key he still held for the exterior door of the Garnier.

"I just need to stop at my apartment for my tools," Queval replied.

* * *

A/N: Erik Vachon was the reputed basis of the Phantom and suffered erythropoietic porphyria. Check out Porphyria at Wikipedia. http/en. 


	31. Unexpected Guests

**Part Twenty-nine: Unexpected Guests**

Jean Queval opened the door of the cab, setting a black box with a leather strap handle down by La Chance's feet. He reached for something else.

La Chance kept scooting to one side of the seat. Pressed against the far door, he counted the odd assortment of various boxes and what looked to be a painter's easel. Queval slid in at last, pulling his door closed.

The cab's wheels clattered along the pavement. La Chance glanced out of the window wondering if they had driven passed this block of buildings before, and if the cabbie expected a tip for elongating the route to the Opera. When the cab rolled to a stop, they were across the street from the Rue Gluck side of the Garnier.

La Chance hustled Queval towards the door. Rather than picking up several of the boxes, the man went back and forth ferrying one at a time. La chance rolled his eyes and went back to snatch all of them up that he could.

The door rattled, but opened. There seemed to be some activity towards the stage, so La Chance hustled Queval to the first downward set of stairs he knew existed. Getting the man in the cellar, La chance went back up to snatch a lantern.

Queval sat on one of the boxes, eyes closed, humming. Another of the containers sat at his feet, upon it rested a glass globe in which two metal strips were suspended. La Chance tapped him on the shoulder. "Are you ready, Monsieur?"

Queval nodded. "Yes, we are."

"We?"

"Of course. Alexander tells me the field varies here. We must strike out downwards."

"Alexander who?"

"Why, Alexander the Great, of course. He's the one who found the channel of water below."

"Of course," La Chance muttered. He might have smacked himself in the forehead if the bridge of his nose didn't still smart.

* * *

Erik sat with his back to the driver. Mirielle sat with her hands folded over her bag. She looked a little different in her working attire. No decorations in her hair, no frills and lace and rich satin dress. The neck of her blouse reached her chin and her cuffs finished at her wrists. Other than her face, there was little to see of her.

"You are a lovely woman," Erik told her.

She looked down at her hands. "Thank you." Her eyes lifted to trace the line of his arm, up to his mask. He sat with his remarkable eyes trained upon her.

She smiled a little, a faint, uncertain smile.

The smile didn't light her eyes. Erik couldn't disagree with her. He'd repeatedly drawn closer to her and then rudely held her at arms length. "I am sorry. I am a beast, and an ignorant one at that. Can you forgive me?"

"Erik," she spoke lightly. "We need to talk."

"Yes?"

"About things…we've never talked about."

"Such as?"

"Such as our going to the Opera."

"You mean now?"

"Well, you made it sound as if we were going to your home."

"We are," he agreed. Her hesitance made him add, "If that is what you wish."

Mirielle's hand went to straighten her hair which looked perfectly arranged to Erik. It was the sort of nervous gesture that stirred a memory in his mind. Christine had made a similar gesture as he had groveled at her feet. She'd stood looking around as if she wished to flee. He'd been a pathetic figure begging for her love.

"Madame, I am at your disposal. Although I have vehemently brushed you aside at every turn, I did not do it thoughtlessly. It would be easier on both of us if I could make you see the folly in our situation."

"Do you wish to end this situation?"

"I should. But damn me, if I am willing to."

She sighed. "What I wish to know is how far you are willing to expand on this situation."

Her eyes avoided his, and Erik could feel the palpable change in the cab's interior. She was frightened.

Mirielle continued. "What I mean to ask is if you have really given any thought to what our situation is." She paused. "Or isn't."

"Is," he repeated carefully. "It is." The cab pulled to a stop and he exited, offering Mirielle a hand down. Pushing a number of notes into the driver's hand he told him to keep the change.

The cab pulled away leaving them just across the street from the area of the Opera where the offices stood. As the façade of the building appeared behind the moving shape of the cab, Erik stiffened and grabbed Mirielle by the arm, pulling her around the corner.

Mirielle felt something must be wrong. Erik had always been such a gentleman with her, even in his moments of panic. She waited until he paused before she quietly asked him, "Do you see something?"

Erik's teeth ground together. "No Chance," he gritted out.

Mirielle gaped in surprise. "What ever is he doing here? After the meeting with the managers, I shouldn't doubt they have forbidden him to even set foot inside the building."

"That wouldn't put him off," Erik retorted. "He has a Ghost to catch." He turned to Mirielle, who stood huddled next to him. "Darling, I may have to beg your indulgence once more."

Mirielle cast a suspicious look at him. "What are you going to do?"

"With any luck I shan't do anything. That brash buffoon will do it to himself and the poor sod that has joined him in his misadventures." Erik watched the two of them ferry boxes from the curb to the door.

Mirielle hazarded a step forward, craning her neck around the corner to see the two men. "Oh dear. I'll say one thing for that young man—he is determined."

"He's taken on the wrong adversary," Erik hissed.

"Now, now," Mirielle soothed, patting his arm. "He's young. The young think they will make the world stand still and listen, when all they do is make a lot of noise."

Erik seethed. If it weren't for the fact he wanted to spend the evening with Mirielle, he might have been tempted to follow his two uninvited guests to a quiet niche under the fly tower and use the lasso on them.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. No. He wasn't the Khanum's creature anymore. He might use the lasso to send them scrambling, but not to take their lives. The rosy Persian dawn would not be repeated. He had too many ghostly companions when he slept to add two more wailing souls to their number.

Mirielle felt his heavy sigh. "Poor Erik," she whispered.

His head snapped so suddenly in her direction she nearly jumped. His bright eyes turned flat again, from a golden glow to hardened brass.

"Oh, no," she admonished holding up a finger. "You are not going to leave me standing on a curb, Monsieur!"

His eyes narrowed and she pressed on, literally stepping up against him. "You are going to leave me here aren't you?" She nearly stamped her foot in frustrated anger; instead she let out a strangled growl. "I won't have it! You can't show up at the shop and try to patch things up and then turn around and drop me off on a curb while you go play Opera Ghost."

"They are planning on finding my home and barging their way into it. Don't I have the right to defend the one place in this world where I can be alone?"

Erik tried to stop the word before it reached his lips. He reached for her as she stepped away, her eyes betraying her hurt. "I didn't mean that.."

"Yes, you did." She stepped back, pulling on the arm he gripped. "You did"

"No, not like that, Mirielle. You don't understand." His own frustration mounted. La Chance's arrival completely ruined the progress he was making with Mirielle.

She still pulled away, not looking at him now. Erik drew in a deep breath. "Oh, hell." He bent low and proceeded to put his shoulder to her waist and pulled on her arm, lifting her over his shoulder as he stood.

Mirielle let out a startled gasp. "Erik! Put me down this instant."

He swung towards the street and began loping across it, holding her legs still as he went. Her little fists beat on his back as she let out a stream of invectives. "Sorry, what was that?" he teased. He got her to the door and hastily drew out his key, unlocking it and flinging it open, hoping no one would be on the other side to see the Ghost carrying a woman. "Duck your head dearest or you might have a headache."

Mirielle glanced about in confusion. Everything looked different when it was upside-down. The blood was beginning to sing in her head. "Erik," she groaned.

He hurried up the corridor and down the hall to his box. He nearly slid around one corner on the marble floor, and caught his footing in time to sprint passed an older man who stepped out into the hallway. "Evening Claude," he called out.

Claude Duault raised a hand in greeting as something large and black swept past. He'd spent thirty-five years as a watchman before finding a job at the Opera as a scene lifter, and retiring to a job as a door closer. Taking mincing steps he proceeded from one door to the next, rattling the handle experimentally to see if the doors were locked. Although his eyes weren't that good anymore, he swore that fellow who rushed past was hunchbacked. Something large sat on his shoulder.

Erik rounded the last turn in the corridor. "Just a moment, Mirielle," he said breathlessly. She'd given up trying to beat him, now she just clung to the back of his coat and moaned. Turning the doorknob and kicking the bottom of the door, Erik got into the box and slowly let Mirielle down. He hung on to her arms until she managed to get her feet under her, then led her to a chair.

When she seemed steady enough, he reached inside his jacket and retrieved a handkerchief. Turning away from her, he slipped the mask away from his face and wiped his brow and top lip. He pocketed the handkerchief and cinched the straps tight behind his head. His mask secured he turned around.

Mirielle sat sprawled in the chair with a hand to her forehead. Erik knelt close to the chair. "There, you see? I didn't leave you on the curb. You'll be fine here until I come back. I just want to check on those two and then I'll come back, alright?"

He stood, whipping off his greatcoat and flinging it to the other chair. "I shan't be a moment. You just..er..recover and then we'll have a nice little visit shall we?" He backed towards the pillar and pried it open behind him. Stepping in quickly, he pulled it closed and started the mechanism.

Mirielle's stomach was just beginning to settle down. Erik's shoulder had rubbed her rib cage as he jogged along the last corridor. She brushed a hand over it and winced. Being carried off always sounded so romantic in books. The awful truth of it was her head was still spinning. Although she felt muddled, she clearly heard the key inserted in the box's door and the lock shoot closed.

Getting to her feet, she tried the door. It was indeed locked. She shook the handle and yelled, "Please, you've locked me in. I can't get out!"

Claude Duault shuffled to the next door in the corridor, humming to himself as he went.

* * *

Erik stepped out into the darkness of the third cellar. Giving his eyes a moment to adjust, he listed for telltale sounds of his visitors. It was when he was preparing to take the old stairs at the far end of the room downward that he heard the voices of La Chance and his companion.

Perching on top of a crate, he backed up into the darkness as a light appeared at the top of the stairs. Watching the lantern swing side to side sending tongues of light along the floor he examined the man that accompanied La Chance.

Slight in figure and only as tall as Mirielle, the man took the stairs gingerly, holding forth a glass globe in his hands. Perched on his face was what looked like a giant pair of spectacles. The lenses made his eyes appear huge, and around the rim of each lens was a set of pegs that looked suspiciously like the tuning pegs on a violin.

"Here," the man thrust the globe at La Chance who held the lantern. "Tell me when there is a reaction."

"Such as?" La Chance asked, taking the globe carelessly.

"The leaves inside will move."

Erik peered at the device as La Chance held it up and looked about the stairs.

"Where? A corridor?" The man swung his head towards the area of the cellar where the old stairs were. Proceeding through the dimly lit area, he found the stairs.

"Anything yet?" he queried.

La Chance lifted the globe. "No," he replied flatly.

"Try it over this area."

La Chance moved the globe in an arc over the stairs. "Nothing."

"Brace up, young man. Lord Thompson says we need to descend."

La Chance shook his head, dropping his hand. At the last second, light reflected off the leaves inside, which shivered in Erik's direction.

Good lord, Erik thought. La chance was getting desperate to find him. Suddenly he didn't want this little trip through the cellars to end so quickly. Erik's smile in the darkness was wicked.


	32. Chapter 32

**Strap on your hard hats, secure all lose belongings and please, no pinching any of your fellow travelers. We are about to embark on the ten-cent tour of Garnier's House of Tunes. Action cuts back and forth a lot... **

**Part Thirty: Doors**

Mirielle tried the door again, twisting the knob, banging a hand on the door and calling out at the same time. Pausing, she put her ear to the door and listened. There were no sounds on the other side, only her panicked breathing. She tried the door again, this time kicking it with her foot.

She sighed and stepped back, hands on her hips. "Well, at least it is warmer here than at the curb." She turned in a half-circle. "Honestly, Erik, could we just have a nice, quiet evening like everyone else?"

She prowled before the front of the box, looking over the edge. Glancing at one of the statues along the wall she huffed, "You know, a nice quiet dinner. A chance to sit somewhere cozy. Maybe have one of those Raspberry Champaign cocktails he had them make for me." She turned at the end of the box, pacing the opposite direction. "Loosen your cravat." It was too far down to the floor of the auditorium to climb and the box door was locked. "Some candles and crisp sheets…"

Mirielle stopped before the pillar. Running her fingernails along the edge where it met the wall, she felt a spot that seemed to have something under it. Taking out a hair comb, she worked the teeth of it into the crevasse between pillar and wall until the pillar swung open. Jamming her comb into her purse and tucking her hair behind her ear, she began feeling along the dark interior of the pillar.

* * *

Erik watched until the interlopers descend the stairs. Scratching his chin he contemplated how best to direct them towards the corridor he had rigged to the sewers.

They were on their way to the fourth cellar. At the extreme end of the room would be the rigging and mechanisms to move the rotating section of the stage. Perhaps a little spiritual intervention might hasten their journey.

* * *

Just as Mirielle found what might bring the elevator back up to the box, she heard something approaching the box door. Running to it, she started banging upon it. "Help! I'm locked in!"

Relief swept over her as she heard the key in the lock. The door swung open to reveal the bent figure of the older fellow that she had glimpsed during Erik's sprint through the halls. He peered at her for a moment. "May I help you, Madame?"

"Thank you. You just have. I was locked inside." She pushed past him in the doorway.

Claude cleared his throat and attempted to stand taller. Pointing towards the Grand Escalier he intoned, "Cabs and carriages will be arriving shortly after the performance."

Mirielle grinned. "Thank you so much." Evidently the man wasn't aware that there was no performance this evening. Mirielle started towards the front of the building, then hesitated. Coming back to the fellow she asked, "Do you know how to get to the cellars?"

"The cellars? Certainly, Madame." He locked the door to box five and started walking down the corridor.

* * *

La Chance shook a cobweb off of his hand.

"Anything?" Queval asked.

La Chance lifted the globe. "Nothing," he said disgustedly. Nothing at all. Another thirty francs wasted.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Not you," Queval replied. "Lord Thomas, ask Madame de Stael."

La Chance glanced over his shoulder, the feeling of a breath of air ran soft fingers over his neck. "Exactly how many people are with us on this expedition?"

Queval started at him. The lenses on the contraption on his face distorting his eyes. He blinked and pursed his lips. "I would not have believed a newspaper reporter would be so skeptical, Monsieur La Chance."

"Let's just say, I prefer to be informed." _And at a bar at this moment_, La Chance thought.

Queval sat down carefully on a stair. "Young man, are you familiar with Lord Thomas' works?"

"Ah, no. An Englishman?"

"Perhaps you would recognize him by his title. Lord Kelvin?"

La Chance did not recognize the name. "Enlighten me."

"An apt choice of words," Queval replied.

Erik smothered a snort. _That's Baron Kelvin, the scientist, you simpleton,_ he thought. Surely La Chance wasn't that uneducated. Despite his ire, Erik began to be intrigued by La Chance's companion. He rested his chin on his fist and listened as the man described the method to his search.

* * *

Mirielle walked slowly beside the old man, who had introduced himself as Monsieur Duault, the door closer. They paused as he stepped up to each door, twisting the handle and turning to move to the next one. While he finished his appointed rounds, she glanced around the foyer at the art work.

The galleries and foyers of the Garnier were magnificent. She'd never seen so much gilt, marble, and velvet embellishments before. Surely this must be like living in a palace.

"The Opera was begun in 1861," Claude told her. "All of this," he waved towards a window, "is much different from when I was a lad. Paris used to by a web of medieval streets with nooks and turns. It was the Emperor's desire to clear all that up. He handed the project over to Baron Haussmann to turn Paris into broad boulevards, parks, and larger accommodations for families."

"I didn't know that. It must have been quite ambitious in the beginning."

"Oh, people balked. They always do. But Paris is now a city to be adored by the world." He paused and winked at her. "It smells better as well." He turned a corridor, opened a door and descended a stair. At the bottom, he retrieved a lantern. "The first cellar."

Mirielle glanced about the eerily silent room. She listed to Duault's shuffling footsteps and followed within the island of light.

Back and forth from door to door so many times she lost her bearings, Mirielle kept pace with the old man. When they had gone to the third cellar she noticed a change in the walls around them. The stone seemed coated with dust, turning it all grey. They entered an arched area and she paused, peering at what appeared to be a shorter passageway capped by a long stone lintel. Her companion had moved on as she peered into the shadows, her eyes adjusting to the growing darkness. She stepped into the space and saw what looked to be a very low corridor.

Claude Duault paused. He'd been so busy chatting with that woman he had forgotten a door. Shuffling back to it, he swung it closed and locked it, effectively imprisoning Mirielle Montalais once again.

* * *

"Are you familiar with a rainbow?" Queval asked. "Each band of light is actually a component of what our eyes merely see as the ambient light around us. Now, each band of color actually has a wavelength and a temperature."

"Temperature?"

Queval nodded carefully. Reaching out, he lifted La Chance's hand, raising the globe into the light of their lantern. La chance stood dumbfounded as the metal leaves fluttered to one side of the globe. "And this device is tuned to the magnetic field around the human body."

Erik stiffened. The improbable truth of the man's words was confirmed as the leaves pointed towards him.

La Chance gaped at the globe. He turned on his heel and watched the changes inside the globe. Despite which direction it was moved, the leaves pointed to a deeper darkness before them.

Queval climbed to his feet. "We believe that all things in the universe give off a sort of energy, a dynamic force that is encapsulated around the being. This field can be so strong that it can actually send waves of light bouncing off of it in a halo." He tapped the spectacles on his face. "With these I can at times pick up the shifting light around an object."

He reached into a small box and pulled out another device. "This," he said reverently, "is our finest instrument. The Paradynamic Field Lumiflector."

Erik glanced dubiously at what looked like an overgrown pocket watch. The man swung out two small arms over the top of the cylindrically shaped base. Between them he balanced a piece of glass that resembled a cut diamond. Like a prism, colored light flashed from its depths.

Queval tapped one end of the diamond and it began to spin, one tip pointing downward. "We descend again. There is a passage below us according to Alexander. The water is at its terminus."

Queval prepared to leave, but La chance stood with the globe, peering in the direction that Erik waited. "Shouldn't we…"

"No," Queval replied patiently. "We shall meet up with him again."

Erik blinked as the pair turned unerringly towards the hidden corridor. "Well, damn me…"

* * *

Mirielle froze in the darkness. "Monsieur?" Her voice moved away from her.

Turning her head, she remembered there had been walls to either side of her. She reached out both arms and found the sides of the corridor. Following it back towards the way she came she tripped one of Erik's counterweights. Beside her in the darkness a corridor opened. Her hands followed it.

How many steps, she wondered? She paused and took a breath. She couldn't have walked this far into the corridor before the old man pushed the door closed. She turned what she thought was full circle and reached before her until her fingers found a row of bricks. She followed it for what she though was the same amount of steps she had taken. As she took another step, her toe bumped into something. Another wall.

She searched the darkness with blind eyes and questing fingers. "Erik," she breathed quietly, "I need you."

From off to her right, she heard a scraping sound.

* * *

When all traces of La Chance and his companion were eradicated by darkness, Erik got down off of the crate he sat upon. Resting both arms on it he pondered the best tactic to take in light of this new discovery from the gentleman with the instrument.

Misdirection was a magician's tool. Light at times was as well. He'd have to test this Dynamic Field device. He moved off in another direction, going up a set of stairs.

* * *

"Who's there?" Mirielle ventured.

Moving quietly along, she started to detect a very faint trace of light at the fringes of her vision. She waited patiently for it to grow in intensity. Soon after, she heard a scraping sound of a shoe on the stone floor. "Erik?"

Something shadowy moved along the floor, becoming tangible as it began to claw at her skirt. "Oh my God," she gasped. She kicked at the writhing mass that clung to her. "Shoo! Get off!"

"Please be still."

Despite her revulsion, Mirielle stilled as the swarm of rats ran around her. She reached down and flicked her skirt outward, sending one tenacious creature tumbling away.

"They will pass in a moment, but you must stay still." A lantern floated close to the man's face. Thick lipped, with bulging eyes he moved closer to her.

Standing quietly, she shivered as the tide of vermin past her by. The man moved on, and she turned to him. "I'm lost. Can you help me?"

He walked on, the light of his lantern focused before him. In a tone barely above a whisper he told her. "Stay behind me."

It felt like forever to Mirielle, passing slowly through the dark behind the crowd of small, furry bodies. The mass turned in front of them. The man stepped up to a spot on the wall and pushed open a passage. "Here. You must leave now. This will lead to the bottom of the fly tower."

"Thank you," she replied quietly. "Who are you?"

Lit by the lantern the man smiled. "The Rat Catcher." He gave her a nod and walked away.

Mirielle pushed against the portal and stepped out into a dim corridor.

* * *

Nadir had just stepped out of a cab along the streets that intersected the Rue Gluck. He'd stood staring open mouthed as he saw Erik moving across the street with something over his shoulder. "_Allah…_"

His feet started moving as he concentrated on the sight before him. Hearing a woman's voice, and Erik responding he stopped dead in his tracks. He pulled off his hat and flung it to the ground. Looking skyward he raised his hands. "I told him _pursue_ her, not carry her…oh, never mind!"

He bent and scooped up his hat, stomping towards one of the Opera's exterior doors.


	33. Passageways

**A/N: All aboard for the tour of the underground... **

**Part Thirty-one: Passageways**

Erik went to the platform of levers and pulleys that interconnected a set of drum shaped capstans to the wire stretchers that controlled the rotating platform for the stage. Shrugging off his jacket he went to work quickly. La Chance and that other fellow were on their way downward again. If they reached the water…

* * *

Mirielle blinked in the dimness around her. Concentrating on where the light came from, she walked carefully towards it. 

She found herself emerging under a set of stairs that zigzagged like a bolt of lightning to a platform above her. Before her was a circular shaped vault. The skillfully executed brickwork rounded the ceiling edges above her and led her eyes to the group of pillars that sat in the center of the circle. Every other pillar was dotted by a small gas lamp.

Stepping between the pillars she peered upward at an iron structure that filled the center of the ceiling above her. There was a sharp clank of metal, and the structure began to turn.

"Goodness…"

* * *

La Chance heard it first. A metallic thud followed by the rasp and twang of something metal. He put a hand on Queval's shoulder. Both men hovered in the pool of light the lantern gave off. 

"That's above us, isn't it?" La Chance ventured.

Queval craned his neck, head darting like a bird. "Yes. Something large is moving."

Icy fingers stole through La chance's stomach. "Such as?"

Queval considered his Paradynamic Field Lumiflector. The prism in the center still bobbed in the direction they had been going.

La Chance glanced in both directions. "This fellow they call the Ghost…he has an affinity for trap doors and things."

"Things?" Queval asked, alert.

"Dangerous things," La Chance clarified.

Looking down the corridor, both men turned towards the noise. "I think we should have checked out that deflection in the globe," Queval added.

* * *

Erik sat perched on a stair listening to the clank and creak of the stage mechanism. When the first hint of light appeared from the next level below him, he climbed to his feet and started up the stairs. 

They would nose around the controls most likely. He needed something to draw them up one more cellar.

A woman's scream did the trick.

* * *

She'd been staring at the contraption over her head and stepped backwards, right on top of someone's foot. Leaping in surprise she turned. "Er…Eeeee!" 

Large hands reached out to steady her. "No! No, it's all right!"

Mirielle gulped in another breath, prepared to scream again if need be. The figure who filled the space between pillars was as tall as Erik. A large brimmed hat covered his features, until he took his hands away from her and removed the hat.

"Mademoiselle, this is no place for a lady," he said gallantly.

His hair was a sandy grey. A pencil-thin mustache lined his upper lip and a goatee sprung from his firm chin. His eyes were a bright blue, and his smile looked genuine.

"Sorry, you nearly frightened me right out of my shoes!" she laughed. Mirielle rested a finger on her lip. "Sorry," she repeated, bashfully. "I usually don't scream."

"Oh..that's all right. I usually don't sneak up on women." He paused and then added, "I mean I would never get caught sneaking up on women." After a moment he blurted, "I mean to say that I would never sneak up on a woman." He shuffled his hat between his fingers, grinning sheepishly.

"Well. That's good." Mirielle replied.

The man continued smiling. "I am Percival dit La Fougère. I am in charge of security here at the Garnier."

"Security? I didn't know that there was a need for security here."

"Oh, but of course," he said brightly, tossing a hand in the air and his hat careening into the darkness. He didn't even pause to blink.

Mirielle smiled patiently. She'd met men who had stumbled over their own tongues when they were confronted by a woman. Ignoring the hat trick she asked, "What sort of work do you do?"

I cleared his throat. "I..ah..well..I'm here on a detachment from the Second Arronsdimont, Amondristrant," he shook his head, "A-ron-diss-mont."

My, this poor man was having a difficult time, bless him. Despite his embarrassment at least he didn't stare at her bosom. She offered her hand. "How do you do, Percival. I'm Mirielle Montalais."

He grasped her hand and started pumping it up and down, grinning. "Mir-"

"-Rielle." Erik's voice floated from the darkness under the stairs.

She giggled at the startled look on the Inspector's face. He dropped her hand as if it was aflame, and spun in the direction of the voice. "What are you doing here?"

The glow of Erik's eyes moved towards them until he stepped into the light. "What are you doing here?" He breathed a sigh. "Dearest girl, I thought I left you in the box?"

Mirielle grimaced. "I got locked in. That man we past in the corridor who you said hello to. And then I wasn't locked in, and he gave me a little tour of the foyers and then we were in the cellars, and I got locked in again, and.."

Erik waited patiently. His heart had raced when he'd heard her scream. He was so thankful she was alright, he would even put up with Percival standing before Mirielle looking like a thunder cloud hovered above his head.

"…and that is when I met the Inspector." Mirielle glanced at the man and smiled.

Erik's relief wilted. She was wearing that smile, that bright-eyed smile she'd used on Hughes and the other men at the Café. The Inspector stared foolishly at her. "La Fougère, are you blushing?" he growled.

The man shot him a venomous glance.

Mirielle detected the impatience in Erik's voice. "I was just asking Percival about his job."

Erik felt himself blink. Percival? Since when was this supercilious popinjay _Percival_? "Yes, well, you remember our guests," he let the word hang in the air.

"Yes." She smiled at Percival. "We saw two men coming into the building."

The Inspector stood ram rod straight. "Two men?"

Erik strolled towards Mirielle. "One of them is that nosey reporter La chance. You know, that pest you collared on his last foray through the building?"

Percival lips set in a grim line. "I told the Managers they had been too lenient with him."

"Yes, they were. Did you know that young man has been making life difficult for Mirielle?"

Percival dit LaFougère could have posed for a portrait of an incensed man. "They will not get past me, Mirielle." He bowed deeply to her, his sincere blue eyes looking worshipful.

Erik nearly snorted in disgust. This must have been how the myth of the Siren was born. Mirielle need only smile, and men melted. Faugh! He took hold of Mirielle's arm and guided her towards the stairs.

"Good evening, Percival," Mirielle told the man.

Erik rolled his eyes. He saw the felt hat La Fougère always wore and picked it up, tossing it back to the man.

Percival caught it and slapped it against his coat, shaking off dust. He glanced at Erik and grinned, waggling his eye brows.

Erik continued to guide Mirielle away, but shot a warning glance to LaFougère who now moved his hands in an imitation of an hourglass.

Idiot, Erik thought. He only saw Mirielle as, well, as something female to sniff around like a dog. A hound, Mirielle had mentioned. Yes. Definitely a hound.

Erik glanced at Mirielle as they climbed the stairs. She'd gathered her skirt in one hand, her hips swayed gently as she climbed the steps. It was almost mesmerizing, watching those lush hips sway back and forth. Like a metronome, his heart matching the movement as he watched her. How had he never noticed she was such a graceful creature?

He shook off his thoughts and stepped close behind her. "Hopefully Percival should keep our uninvited quests busy."

Erik guided her to a door that connected with the second cellar. In the quiet dark he listened to her skirts swish. Stepping close he asked her, "Did he frighten you?"

Mirielle felt his breath on her neck. "Just surprised me is all. I had been watching that thing above my head."

"It's the rotating platform for the stage."

"I didn't know it had one of those."

"Come, I'll show it to you."

True to his word, Mirielle stood looking at a space large enough for several people to stand on. "Don't the singers get dizzy?"

Erik chuckled and stepped onto the platform, releasing her arm. "It's for horses. They've been trained to walk to the platform and keep walking in place upon it." He turned a little, keeping his face towards her as the rotation took him to the far side. "Some of the animals are quite skittish at first."

As the platform came around, he reached for her and pulled her to stand on it as well.

"Goodness," she protested, looking down at her feet. "It makes me giddy."

He held her hands and stepped towards the middle. Turning her, he wrapped his arms around her middle and looked over her shoulder. Mirielle leaned against him, a faint smile curved her lips.

"Mysterious girl," Erik sighed in her ear.

"No," she purred. "Mysterious woman."

Erik shifted to look her more fully in the face. My, there seemed to be a gauntlet tossed down. "We should allow Percival some time to roust La Chance and his companion from the building. Would you care to see Paris?"

Mirielle turned to him. "All of it?"

"A considerable amount of it," he replied. He guided her to the edge of the platform and helped her step off. "The way heaven looks down upon it."


	34. La Madeleine

**Part Thirty-two: La Madeleine **

They climbed upward, turning several times on landings and proceeding ever higher inside the Garnier. Erik opened a door, holding her hand and Mirielle followed him out into the crisp air.

With a sharp intake of breath, she clung to his arm. Passing out of the door, the sky opened above her and the fading light of the sun painted the rooftops of Paris in golden streaks and purple shadows. The sounds of the city echoed below.

"You can see for miles on an afternoon such as this," Erik's rich voice floated around her.

He took a step forward, but she kept pressed to his side. She heard him make a sound with his tongue. "I'm sorry; I forgot you do not care for heights." Erik took her hand and stopped, turning her to point out different buildings in the city.

"And just down there before you reach the river is the Jardin des Tuileries, which leads to the Musee Du Louvre." Erik glanced at her face. She stood a little expectantly and clung to him, but her eyes were bright.

"Oh my. It's like a …a canyon isn't it. The rooftops make the buildings all look so close."

"I dare say you shant try leaping to one. It is quite a fall from here," he added mildly. Her fingers closed tighter upon his arm. He glanced over the roofs to find something else to take her mind off of her fears. "There, that is La Madeleine."

She squinted in the fading sun. "It looks like that Greek building, the Acropolis."

"It's distinctly neo-classical. It was started in the late 1700's but not consecrated until 1842. It's surrounded by Corinthian columns-they give it the Greek look. From the staircases, one can see impressive views of the city."

She glanced at him. "You like architecture, don't you?"

"Yes," he replied. "My Father was a stone mason."

Mirielle stilled. Erik put his hand over hers where it rested upon his arm. "He never saw me. He was killed shortly after I was born."

"But, your Mother? You mentioned her when we first dined together."

"I ran away. My Father was gone, and," he paused and lifted a hand to indicate his mask. "She couldn't stand it. Even as a child I realized her sanity was precarious at best. Every day, every deed I accomplished pushed her farther from me. I believed she began to fear me on some level."

"And that's why you left?"

"Yes."

She glanced at the roofs of Paris. "Is that why you are still running away?"

Erik believed he had misheard her until the full meaning of her words penetrated him. He considered her hand in his; warm and so comforting in so many ways. Her simple acceptance and her gentle if not teasing nature had brought him back, over and over again.

He tried once again. "I have not been a good person."

Mirielle shivered, but not from the chill air. "Are you now?"

Erik looked steadily into her eyes. "I wish to be."

His tawny eyes glowed, mirroring the sun. In a voice that seemed to pull itself from the deepest recesses of his body, he said, "I love you."

A joyful smile lit her face. She lifted her fingers to his chin. "It's about time you admitted it, you old fox."

For a moment, Erik stood breathless, his heart hammering inside his chest. He felt as if he were standing on a precipice, the edge of the roofs, looking down into Mirielle's 'canyon'. He took two deep breathes before he pushed on. "I want to be married," he pointed to La Madeleine. "I've always wanted to be married there."

Mirielle looked blankly at the church's structure. A tingling began in her fingers and toes. Something fluttered inside her stomach; it felt like she'd swallowed a moth. The chill around her subsided as she felt flushed.

Words wouldn't come. She felt herself blink and swallow. What did he say? Married at the church with the Greek columns. "That would be nice," her voice sounded dreamy.

Erik searched her face. She looked as if she were under a spell. He tried again. "I want us to be married there."

She still looked blank and he had the horrid feeling that he had unconsciously slipped into the voice. He cleared his throat and took hold of her arms. She still looked lost in a dream.

"Mirielle?"

"Yes, Erik."

He was afraid to break the spell she was wrapped in. Perhaps like a sleepwalker, she'd start and be upset at her surroundings. "Mirielle, will you marry me?"

She put a finger to her lips and smiled. "I can't hear them."

Erik turned his head. "What? What are you listening for?"

She smiled saucily. "Knitting needles."

"Kni…." He didn't finish. He couldn't, for she had reached to grasp the front of his coat and pulled him towards her smiling lips. The kiss lasted an eternity and seared him right down to his toes.

They broke apart and she smiled. "Will I be Madame Opera Ghost?"

He held her tightly to him. Every breath he took firmed his resolve to never let her go. "You will be Madame Vachon," he told her. He cupped her cheek in his hand. "My light of the moon." She shivered deliciously against him.

* * *

La Chance climbed the stairs as quietly as possible. Holding the globe up before him, the leaves drooped. He continued back up into the cellar where they had reacted before. His hopes subsided, knowing that the Ghost had moved on.

Queval joined him at the top of the stairs. Pointing into the darkness he whispered, "Over there."

La Chance glanced at the leaves again, they began to shudder. He glanced around, feeling himself becoming more alert. He followed Queval who paced forward quietly into the room.

Metallic clicks and rasps were coming from one corner. As the light of the lantern traveled with them, he caught sight of metallic cables traveling over their heads. He held the globe outward and turned in a circle. Nothing could be worse than falling prey to the Ghost. A thought pushed its way into La Chance's mind.

"Queval, why don't the leaves point at us?" Although his voice was pitched low, it sounded unnaturally loud to his ears.

Queval turned, his eyes looking huge behind the spectacles on his face. "It is a question of…"

A loud _thump_ arrested their attention. Queval turned, carefully approaching the corner of the dimly lit cellar. Before him was a long lever. He watched it begin moving from right to left.

"Look," La Chance whispered. Over Queval's head were a number of small gears, whirling fast. The two men watched as the smaller gears moved and eventually wound up a spring until it's compression allowed a larger gear to move with a sharp click. The large gear appeared to be reeling something by the cables that shimmied overhead.

As the two men watched the mechanism striving to complete its design, the lever went _thump_ again, the flooring they stood on lifted, and they were pitched backwards into infernal darkness.

* * *

Nadir Kahn stomped up the stairs to Box five, chewing on the ends of his mustache. He turned the knob to fling open the door, but smartly stepped into it. Testing the knob, the Box was locked.

He pounded upon the door. "Erik! Open this door at once!" When no one came to the door, he tried peering into the etched glass window. There didn't look to be anyone inside.

"Allah," he breathed. "He's lost his wits at last. He's taken the poor woman to his home."

Nadir stalked off. "Jolly grasshoppers again…."

* * *

In the stillness of the netherworld La Chance blinked stinging eyes. "Oh god!" He quickly covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve. Queval must have gotten a whiff at the same moment, for he flung up his arm and bumped the globe. It teetered precariously as La Chance attempted to get hold of it once more.

In the cellar, The Man In The Felt Hat took a look at the whirling gears and the lever. "What are you up to now, Erik?"

A heavy _thump_ drew his attention as the floor pitched under him. The smell in the darkness made his eyes water.

Queval lifted the lantern. La Chance hazarded a breath, pointing frantically. "Fire! Put out the lamp or we'll be blown to purgatory!"

Queval squatted, setting the Paradynamic Field Lumiflector near his knee. He raised the lantern's glass and blew out the flame. The stygian darkness whispered around them.

"Wha' s 'at?" La Chance managed without breathing deeply.

"S'er's"

"Mmmm?"

"S'wers."

La Chance dropped the hand that held the globe. In the darkness was the sharp tinkling sound of glass.

"N'Chance!"

"Mmmmm-mit!"

Both men squatted in the darkness, fingers fleeting along the floor in their search. La Chance felt something and picked it up. It squirmed in his fingers and he flung it away from him. Queval must have been in its path, for there was an exclamation and the sound of the globe rolling along the floor. "Wa' the…" La Chance scrambled on his knees, following the sound. There was a whisper in the darkness. He was suddenly alone.

"Quev'l?"

Percival dit LaFougère brushed a shoulder against one wall. "If this is his idea of a joke…" He stood rooted to the floor, somewhere below him something rasped along the surface of the floor. Bending down, he searched with his hands until he heard something that sounded like glass rolling and followed it.

The sound stopped, and he stood up, brushing against the corner of a wall. Stretching out his hand and burying his nose in the crook of his elbow, he followed the bricks.

Queval felt a rising panic. "Alexander! Help me!" He felt someone brush against him and gave the body a shove. "The crystal! I must have the Lumiflector crystal!"

Something pushed back that felt suspiciously like an elbow. "Stop it you dolt, and don't move. The Lumiflector is lost."

"Wha?"

"The crystal! I won't be able to track the field density with it!"

"Density," Percival repeated.

Queval froze. "La Chance?"

A rumbling growl replied, "Fat Chance."

* * *

Erik took off his hat. It interfered with the kisses he was placing on Mirelle's closed eye lids. "Madame Vachon," he whispered his heart near to bursting.

She opened her eyes, placing a finger on his lips. "Not another word. That tongue of your always starts an argument."

His voice deepened, purring along her nerve endings. "I think it's time my tongue was put to better uses."

She giggled as his hands settled on her rump. "I like the way my fiancée thinks."


	35. Spiraling Downward

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews. I'm glad you are enjoying the journey through the Opera. **

**Part Thirty-three: Spiraling Downward**

Erik brushed a dark tress from Mirielle's cheek. "Come. I think we've allowed my uninvited visitors enough time."

Mirielle let Erik slip her hand over his arm. They proceeded back to the door, and she cast one last glance in the direction of the church. "I wonder how my daughters will take the news."

Pulling open the door, Erik stopped so abruptly that the bottom of it banged into the toe of his shoe.

* * *

Queval stood in the darkness, the hair on the nape of his neck bristled. "Monsieur?"

"Inspector," Percival dit LaFougère retorted. He took hold of the man's arm. "Back this way," he gave the arm a tug.

"But my crystal shall be lost," Queval complained.

"For God's sake man," LaFougère spat, "let's get out of this smell."

Queval bit back a sigh and let the other man tug him along.

Mathurin LaChance searched the darkness with his arms outstretched. When his fingertips intercepted another wall he muffled a curse and turned, searching in another direction.

Two floors above their heads, the mechanism went _thump_ again. This time, an adjoining bar had been reeled in by one of the spinning cables. Below, three passage doors swung open.

La Chance's fingers found air and followed it. Queval and the Inspector turned a corridor and came to a dead end. The three men stood deliberating there escape until the next cycle of the machine above them.

* * *

The air vanished from Erik's lungs. "Daughters?"

"Yes, dearest. You're a grandfather."

Erik's brows would have collided if he had any worth mentioning. "A grandfather?"

Mirielle stepped carefully down the stairs. "Of course. You remember, we mentioned children that first night we were together and you forgot…."

Erik placed a hand on his chest. "Do they have to come to the wedding?" He couldn't seem to take in enough air.

Mirielle turned to him. "Erik?" Her eyes narrowed and she pulled him along by his hand. When she got to the bottom step she turned, forcing him to sit down. "Put your head down and breathe slowly."

He rested his elbows on his knees, his breath wheezing in his chest. This was it. He'd proposed to a woman, and now he was going to go into heart failure. A warm hand rested on his back.

Mirielle made a circle with her palm, then rubbed across his shoulders. She tsked. "Really, we should have talked about all of this before now. But you are such an impetuous man."

Erik blinked. Taking a shallow breath, he exhaled slowly, feeling his heart beating in his throat. "A grandchild?"

"Mm-hmm. One daughter has a baby, and the other was just married before I came to Paris."

"Daughters."

"Yes. Hilaire is twenty. She and her husband Paul have a little boy. And Josette just married Radégonde." She clucked her tongue. "They both just turned eighteen. I tried to tell Josette that they should be in no hurry, but they are young and lost in the first blush of love."

"Daughters?"

Mirielle peered over his shoulder. "Married daughters," she stressed. "You won't have to chase off any suitors." She rubbed her hand up and down his back. "Feeling better?"

Erik took a deep breath. "Do they have any idea…"

"Of what?" she leaned close to his ear, her breath tickled his neck.

He struggled to his feet. "Do they know I wear a mask?"

Mirielle stood up on a step above him, she put her hands on his shoulders. "They know I've met a wonderful man. That's all they need to know. What makes their Mother happy should make them happy as well."

Erik looked up into her open, shinning face. "Do I make you happy?"

"Yes, you old fox," she leaned down very close to his ear. "You make me very happy."

Erik blinked. She seemed to be standing in a haze. A beatific smile curved her lips, the blue of her eyes as deep as the sea. As serene as a Madonna, she was the portrait of all that was beautiful about a woman.

"Come on," she collected his arm and coaxed him. "Let's go home." They started down the next set of stairs, her voice traveling around them. "Are we going to live here at the Opera?"

Erik's steps faltered.

* * *

Nadir Kahn stomped down the stairs. Turning a corner, he stopped abruptly to keep his nose from banging into a wall. It took a moment for the thought to enter his head that Erik had moved a wall. "What game is this, Erik?"

With hands fisted on his hips, he turned in a circle. Off to his left was an opening. He walked determinedly forward. "You're going to get pieces of my mind for this."

Somewhere below him, likes rats in a maze, La Chance, Queval and the Inspector pushed warily against the walls around them, expecting the next _thump_.

Along one of the cables kept busily spinning by the whirling gears, another lever lost its tension and fell with a soft _ting_. It was accompanied by a chorus of twangs and thumps and one last long tortuous squeal.

"Oh,God," La Chance moaned.

In the corridors, the blocks that Erik had rigged to move, all reverted to their normal positions. Nadir Kahn stumbled, finding himself shoved inside a storage room. The other three were not as fortunate. Their surprised yelps turned to dissonant howls of agony as they were literally dumped into a corridor of the Paris sewers.

* * *

"What on earth was that?" Mirielle asked, hesitating on a stair. She turned a horrified face to Erik. "It sounds as if someone was being murdered."

Still a little shaken by Mirielle's newest revelation, Erik shrugged. "It's an old building. You hear strange things all the time."

He took hold of her hand, but she dug her heels in. "Erik…." She drew out slowly. "What are you up to?"

"Can a man not defend his castle?" He swept an arm encompassing the stairs. "If I let that booby La Chance down below, their will be dozens of reporters swimming the lake to get to my door. I demand privacy," he spat.

She held up a placating hand. "I understand. I just don't want anyone hurt."

"Permanently?"

At his query, she looked a little pale. "You don't need to defend yourself anymore. No one's going to bother you, dearest. I'll make sure of that," she crooned.

"Yes, well, that's a wonderful sentiment Mirielle, but you hardly look ready to don armor and pick up a sword." He stabbed a finger towards the source of the howls. "They won't give up!"

She posed with a finger to her lips, eyes rolled upwards.

"What is it?" Erik had no idea what thoughts wafted through her lovely head, and he wasn't sure he would like the direction they were taking.

"Why not just give them what they want?"

"Uhn..?" Good lord, he was gaining a wife and losing the ability to speak. "Huh?"

She giggled prettily. "Wouldn't it be funny if the Opera Ghost turned out to be a woman?"

"Mirielle," Erik growled. "That is not amusing."

"Oh, don't be such an old fuddy-duddy." She took hold of one of his lapels, tip toeing to whisper, "I'm sure you are a man."

Her soft breath raised the hair on his neck and settled the rhythm of his heart to a deeper, stronger beat. "They're in the sewers. The only thing that could kill them is the smell," he admitted.

She blinked, but wisely held her tongue. If Mirielle Montalais had learned anything in twenty years of marriage, she knew when a man needed to be the one to make the decisions. Somehow, Erik had made the decision that the eyes of the assassin would never be seen again.

It made her fall even more in love with her mysterious Ghost.

* * *

This corridor seemed familiar, leading Nadir back to the vault under the flytower. He entered from the east side and circled around the columns that sat like stone roots supporting the iron frame work that soared above the stage.

After a few more minutes of walking, he came to the intersection that actually led nowhere. Dislodging the end of a brick, a false wall slid back. He contemplated the last time he had wound up inside Erik's mirrored room. Suppressing a shiver, he hoped this time there would be no bloody barrels and no talk of insects and wedding marches.

With a soft click, the mirror swung open. The iron tree still dominated the space, strange shapes twirled in unseen breezes. It made goose bumps shiver up his arms. Going to the section where the release was, he slid out his penknife and released the mirror that would disgorge him into Erik's house.

Tossing his hat on the sideboard, he paced before the fireplace. A howl fit for a desert jackal echoed eerily in the silent house.

* * *

Erik raised fingers to his lips. "Ah. Spinto! Who would have thought La chance could be such a fine tenor."

Mirielle suppressed a grin. "Really, you are taking too much enjoyment from this."

He pulled her to a stop with his hand in hers. "Not so many years ago I would have strangled them for the amusement of a woman."

Sensing he wished to talk, she waited. "Tell me."

"I had no control over my life, Mirielle. I believed myself a tool to be used, and I let those people have free reign. I'd deluded myself into believing I did it for my own survival." His voice dropped. "There comes a time when the voices won't stop, when their face is what haunts you. They didn't even have time to fear, they merely looked astonished."

She gave his hand a squeeze, feeling his long fingers. She lifted their hands. "You've moved on, haven't you? These hands might be dirty, but things can be washed away. Life will give you to opportunity to change your world, if you wait and listen."

"I've waited," he replied, his voice filled with emotion. He glanced down at their hands. "I see them in my mirror sometimes, their features supplanting mine. My face is not so ghastly compared to the betrayal upon theirs."

"I'm sorry."

He lifted a shoulder. "Not your doing."

"Come on," she tugged his hand. "Let's have a nice hot cup of tea and sit by the fireplace. We can talk."

His golden eyes glowed in the edge of the light from a lantern he retrieved from a hook on the wall. "Yes, let's go home."

He led her downwards, into the depths of darkness where one solitary heart had waited for so long.

* * *

Spinto--("pushed") is a vocal term used to characterize a soprano or tenor voice of a weight between lyric and dramatic that is capable of handling large dramatic climaxes at moderate intervals. An example of this description would be Luciano Pavaroti. :) 


	36. One Box

**A/N: Yes folks, the Paris sewer isn't the only place the **_Merde _**hits the fan... (Insert evil laughter here.)**

**Chapter Thirty-four: One Box**

The Persian paced the living room of the house beside the lake. Leaning hands upon the sill of one of the windows, he glimpsed the lantern that Erik hung off the front of the boat listing slowly from side to side as Erik poled the craft homeward.

Sitting in the front, was Mirielle. Half-turned she chatted while looking over the edge into the water. Nadir sighed. Perhaps he'd been a little hasty to pin some nefarious deed upon Erik. Chuckling to himself, he straightened and waited beside the front door.

Erik offered a hand to Mirielle. Her dainty foot no more than brushed the pebbles on the shore than his door swung open to reveal a grinning Nadir Kahn. His hopes of achieving a quiet, comfortable evening with Mirielle evaporated.

"Oh, Nadir. How are you this evening?" Mirielle smiled.

"What are you doing here?" Erik asked.

Nadir lifted his chin. "I arrived at the Opera in time to see a man clad in a dark coat abducting a woman." He grinned at Mirielle, the corners of his mustache lifting. "Has this socially inept _muti _properly apologized to you?"

She looked shyly at Erik who stood with his hands locked behind his back. He glanced at his feet and then back to her. "Nadir," he began, his fey eyes glowing, "may I present my fiancée."

Overcome by Erik's simple revelation, Nadir took a deep breath. Stepping forward with opened arms, he placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "_Ma sha Allah_," he pronounced his voice thick with emotion. Pulling them in closer, his placed a kiss on Mirielle's cheek. "May Allah bless you both, for all the years you shall share."

"Thank you," Mirielle replied.

Erik gave Nadir a pat on the back. "Come on, let's have something to celebrate. I think I still have some of that stuff you drink Nadir, the one with no alcohol in it."

"You don't drink?" Mirielle asked.

"Only in a rare circumstance," Nadir explained. "Alcohol is _Haram_, forbidden in the Islamic world."

She placed a hand on Erik's arm. "Well, we certainly don't want to lead anyone astray, do we?"

They turned towards the door. Nadir asked, "Now that you are here, can you tell me a little about your roommate?"

* * *

Percival managed to get his feet under him, one arm out to steady himself on the slippery surface that must be the door that admitted them into the sewer. Holding his breath and trying not to think of the wet, clinging sludge that coated him up to his thighs, he held a breath and tried prying the door open.

Finding an edge with a fingertip, he flexed his fingers into claws and pulled. After a few inches of movement, the door seemed to be jammed. "Damn.." he muttered. Trying again, it didn't budge.

"You," he called to Queval, "help me get this door open."

Queval attempted to take a step. Moving carefully with his arms out he slogged through the lower center of the corridor they stood in and made his way towards the inspector. Reaching for what looked like the edge the man had a hold of, he sat his foot on something that shot out from under him. Suddenly falling, his hands flailed, catching the other man by the back of his coat.

The two men swayed, Percival flailing to stay upright while Queval's feet shot out from under him, dumping him onto the floor. Climbing back to his feet, Percival caught hold of one of the man's hands and tried to steady him while he slid, gaining a foot hold. They stood together, breathing heavily, when the door swung completely open.

* * *

Tending the fireplace, Erik stood to accept the glass of Cognac that Mirielle offered. Taking a sip, he held the glass, his elbow resting on the mantel. Another wail rent the air.

"Oh, those poor men," Mirielle shook her head. Turning a hard eye on Erik she tsked. "Don't you think they have learned their lesson?"

He swirled the liquid in the glass and peered at her. "If they had gotten into the corridor with you, my dear, you might be with them even now."

Her eyes narrowed. "Well, leave them there a while longer." She turned back to the sofa and seated herself.

Nadir sat smiling upon the chair next to the fireplace. "So, do you believe that Mademoiselle Jardaux would not be opposed to taking dinner somewhere with me?"

"You'll have to ask her. I can introduce the two of you properly. Why don't you come for dinner tomorrow?"

"Would tomorrow be a good time?" Nadir queried.

Erik let a dry chuckle escape. "You're not in any hurry are you, Nadir? I thought you liked your ice cream cold."

Nadir raised a shoulder in an easy shrug. "A man can change his mind, can't he?"

Looking at his long time companion, Erik nodded. "Yes. A man can change his mind."

Sitting on the sofa, Mirielle looked quite comfortable in his house. A though crossed his mind. She'd never seen his bedroom, only the one he had prepared for Christine. Perhaps he should take Nadir aside and ask him how to breach the subject of the coffin.

Another pair of howls pierced the air. Erik withdrew his pocket watch. "They'll be out of there soon enough." He spoke to Nadir as he walked towards his front door, "Care to accompany me and assure those idiots find their way out of the sewers?"

Finishing his drink, Nadir arose and nodded to Mirielle. "I'll be at your apartment at seven," he said, retrieving his hat to join Erik.

* * *

La Chance could hear the direction of the howling. He could also hear a pair of voices. "Help!" he cried, banging a fist against the bricks and cursing his stupidity. "Over here! The door is jammed."

"Step away from the doorway, Monsieur," a voice from the other side told him.

With a faint grating sound, the door swung open. Standing before him holding a lantern was an exotic looking fellow with a fuzzy hat on his dark head. The man raised his arm and pointed down the corridor. "The stable is that way. I suggest you wash off at the pump near the horse trough."

"Who are you," La Chance demanded. "Are you working with the Ghost?"

Nadir Kahn turned a surprised gaze at the younger man. "No. Although I would recommend you no longer search for him. He's been quite lenient with you this time."

"I'm not afraid of him," La Chance growled. He started to pull his press credentials from his pocket, but something wet and slimy clung to his coat. He flicked his fingers in the darkness, turning away so he wouldn't see what it was he thought clung to his hand.

"It isn't the Ghost you need worry about," another voice growled. Off to the right of the lantern appeared Queval and the Inspector that had nabbed him when he was here with the dogs.

Nadir pointed towards the stables again. As La Chance turned to follow the other men, he swore he heard ghostly laughter.

* * *

Mirielle slipped off her shoes. The fire had made the room quite cozy. If Erik was escorting Jules out, and checking on those men, perhaps she'd have enough time to get really comfortable. The surprised joy in Erik's voice would be a wonderful way to cap off such an amazing day.

Getting up from the sofa, she paced through the house. Somewhere, a slim, flat box contained a beautifully transparent costume.

* * *

"Merde!" La Chance spat.

"Precisely," Nadir replied eyeing the dark matter sluiced off by the pumps water. The man who identified himself as Queval sat miserably waiting his turn.

"The water is freezing!" La Chance spat as he wrung off his coat and flung it to the floor.

Percival stood with a hand against the wall, attempting to scrape something off of his shoes. He muttered a stream of invectives in cadence with his sharp movements. Turning to glare at his companions he said, "If it weren't a health hazard, I'd have you two in the jail at the station!"

Nadir leaned against the trough, wondering if there were any further assistance he could offer, but decided Erik would probably appreciate them having to sort out their own way home smelling as they did.

"I think you gentleman can find your own way out from here." He paused momentarily. "I needn't remind you of what a trolley this is?"

All three men turned to gape at him. "I think you mean 'folly'," Queval offered.

Nadir tipped his hat and walked away, leaving the three ninnies. Tomorrow he may have a chance at speaking to the lovely Catherine.

* * *

The door swung open smoothly. Stepping inside, the room was dark. Mirielle went back to pick up one of the lamps and bring it with her. She'd already checked the parlor and the bedroom she had stayed in. Unsure of what room she entered, she poised at the threshold.

Stretched before her on a small dais under a canopy of black curtains was an elaborately decorated coffin. It wasn't exactly the sort of box she had hoped to find.

Erik hummed as he crawled up through the trap door and into the mirrored room. Going over to one of the panels, he tapped it lightly. "Mirielle?"

The sofa sat empty. He went to check the water closet, but its door stood ajar. Perhaps she'd gone in the kitchen. Standing at the threshold, there was no woman in sight. He sat hands upon his hips and turned back to the parlor. It was then he noticed his bedroom door was open.

Cursing himself, he'd forgotten to ask Nadir about the coffin. How on earth was he going to explain it to Mirielle? Walking quietly to his room, he pushed the door open a little more.

She stood with her back to him. "Mirielle, dear girl. I can explain."

She made a curious hiccupping noise and Erik realized she was sobbing. Going to her, and placing his hands on her shoulders he turned her gently. Silvery tears coursed down her cheeks. "Oh….Erik….."

"I can explain…"

"Why didn't you tell me?" she took in a breath. Her trembling hand rested upon his lapel. "How long do you have left?"

"Left?" He cocked a ridge of skin where a missing eyebrow would have grown. "What do you mean left?"

Her trembling fingers clutched his lapel, taking a moment, she sputtered, "To live."

His mouth formed a perfect o. "Oh, no. It isn't that! I'm fine darling, right as rain, you see," he lifted her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. "That is a…um…I sa…its…"

"A coffin," she said softly. "You aren't ill?"

"No, I'm quite sure I'm fine."

Her soft lips pouted. "You aren't trying to spare my feelings are you?" He started to speak but she blurted, "I'll stay with you, darling. Right to the end. Don't send me away."

He took hold of her shoulders again. "I'm not dying, I promise you." He steered her towards the parlor. "It's a long story, so I suppose I should start now."


	37. Doorways

**A/N: Since this is a short chapter...and very Jules Vernesque...there will be the next chapter posted on Sunday.  
**

**Chapter Thirty-five: Doorways**

"Come here, Mirielle." Erik guided her to the sofa. Sitting her down, he offered her his handkerchief to wipe her tears with.

"You aren't ill?" she sniffed.

"No, sweet girl, that coffin has nothing to do with my immanent demise. It actually was a prop used during my time with the traveling fair."

They sat together on the sofa, she leaning against his shoulder, Erik stroking her arm with his hand. He paused the story once to glance at her. "Are you hungry? I could fix you an omelet."

She smiled. "I'll cook, you keep talking."

Together they grated cheese and chopped tomatoes, dropping them into the pan for Erik to stir as Mirielle giggled at part of his story. She poured the tea and toasted the bread. They sat at Erik's small kitchen table eating by candlelight. He'd brought his robe out to put around her shoulders, for she grew chill.

They retired to the sofa again. He talked softly in the darkness as the flames in the fireplace flickered. "We should stop for now," he told her. "We need to get you home."

She borrowed closer to him. "I don't have to be to work until noon tomorrow." Her dark eyes lifted slowly. "I can sleep late."

Despite the emotional upheavals of the day, Erik felt an energizing hum along his nerve endings. "My God woman, you are a shameless flirt," he felt himself smile lazily.

"Only because it gives you such delight." She patted his vest, where her hand rested. "I'll be right back." With a saucy wink, she got up and strolled down the hall to the water closet.

Erik crossed his hands over his stomach and lay back on the sofa. Laying there thinking, he wondered what had possessed him to take her to the roof and show her the church. Everything he had done or thought seemed to melt away, leaving one bright clear spot of sunlight pointing to La Madeline, and Mirielle.

And what better way to end the day with a light supper, a pleasant fire, and a willing woman.

Erik sat up abruptly as a set of his warning bells began to toll.

* * *

Going back along the corridor inch by inch, Queval found the globe. On his hands and knees, he muttered softly as he pushed the device before him on the floor, holding a lamp aloft. "Somewhere. Somewhere. Oh, Alexander, help me! I must regain my crystal." 

From behind him, he felt the air stir. Glancing at the globe, the leaves fluttered to life. Sitting down on the floor, the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. "I lost my crystal. I'm sorry to bother you, but it is quite rare. My device will not work without it."

A sound like a sigh came to him on the currents of air. Something flitted by quickly at the periphery of his lantern. Turning to peer at the edge of darkness around him, a voice whispered, "You have strayed too far."

Queval checked the leaves again, they moved in a circle around the globe. "Amazing," he gaped. "I-I'm sorry. I only wanted the chance to see if my device worked." Only the echoes of his voice came to him.

The voice was silent for so long Queval thought it might have retreated, but was startled as it whispered closer to his ear. "What did you hope to find?"

Queval pulled out the device Erik had seen, opening the cover and holding it in the light. "The crystal focuses the fields. I found out through a medium friend of mine that spirits have a certain aura. I had hoped to learn to detect that energy."

When there was no reply he continued, "You see everything is composed of energy." He touched the bricks on the floor and then himself. "Everything has been brought into existence because something else gave up its energy as it transmuted states. We believe…"

"We?" the voice rasped.

"My colleagues and I. We've been hoping to be able to track this energy."

"Why?"

"Because we have found that there is the possibility of alternate realities. Think of it, other worlds, and other lifetimes running parallel with our own."

There was a sound, a soft scrapping and Queval could almost feel the Ghost's breath near his face. "And what will you do with this knowledge?"

Queval stilled. "You probably won't believe me."

"You are talking to a Ghost. Go on," the voice encouraged.

"I have had a dream ever since I was a young man. I see a woman and three children standing at a garden gate. As I approach, the children wave excitedly calling 'Papa!'." The crushing emptiness he experienced came out in his voice. " I have never married."

Erik waited in the shadows at the fringe of the lantern's light. He understood fully the longing that the man's voice held.

Queval glanced up as the leaves stopped moving and pointed into the dark. A pair of glowing amber eyes looked down upon him. Like an animal before a predator, her froze. Superstitious fear scrabbled at the back of his mind. As he waited, a hand floated towards him. The long fingers uncurled, revealing the crystal.

Taking it carefully, he dropped it into the center of the The Paradynamic Field Lumiflector. It bobbed for a moment, and then turned to point towards the lake. "May I?" he asked looking up at the faceless man who materialized out of the darkness.

The Ghost extended a hand towards the lake. "_Bon chance, Monsieur_."

Queval's figure walked to the edge of the quay, a curious blue light danced along the edges of his form. He seemed to turn thinner and transparent as his feet touched the water's surface. There was one small flash of white light, and he was gone.

A sharp metallic clink made Erik move to the edge of the water. Just at the edge of the surface on a rock lay the device sans crystal. He reached down and scooped it out, balancing it on his fingers.

He'd take it home and put it on his bookshelf. Someday, its owner might need it back.

* * *

Checking his watch, Erik pushed open his front door and looked about the parlor. Candles sat glowing upon the mantel and the tables. His robe lay on the sofa. Walking into the room, he saw Mirielle standing at the opening of the hall. 

She glowed. Her dark hair caressed her face, and her eyes reflected the flickering lights that traced the dark surface of the _harim_ costume over her body.

His mouth went dry as he took in the soft material caressing her softer, warmer flesh. The curves and hollows of her body were touched with light and shadow. She walked towards him, the costume's silken material gliding over her.

"Do you like it?" she asked in a breathy voice.

"You know I do," Erik replied. His hands lifted, wanting to touch everything.

* * *

Queval and his friends are the forerunners of modern researchers in Quantum physics. For your own journey to alternate worlds, see the information on the Obscure Passage from the Garnier Opera by typing in Garnier Opera and that info. Fanfic won't allow adresses on the chapter pages. It's an interesting idea...and would explain how Erik was free to travel unseen. 


	38. A Simple Question

**Chapter Thirty-six: A Simple Question**

Mirielle rested a hand upon her breast, fingers tracing the top edge of the harim costume. Turning a little she smiled. Erik's tawny eyes blazed as he watched her fingers. She would flirt and tease drawing delight from the shock it drew form him.

The longer she could capture that keen intelligence in thoughts of simple bliss, the less likely he would be to start that nonsense of attempting to protect her from his past.

"Beautiful," he exhaled. His gaze roving over her already tingling flesh.

Mirielle stepped forward feeling the play of the silk over her body. She reached to push his jacket off of his shoulders. Offering her lips, she said teasingly, "What naughty thoughts are going through your mind?"

His hands settled on her hips as she began to undo the buttons on his vest. Erik had the hands of an artist. In the dark together, her flesh would become the medium though which he expressed his passion. He pulled her closer into his embrace.

She lifted a hand to his neck and up to his chin. Erik stiffened as the edges of her fingers slid along his lip. She held his face still and offered her mouth in a kiss. Poised above her, he brushed his lips against hers so softly she held her breath. He deepened the kiss.

His hands trailed up her neck and into her hair. Tipping her head back he kissed and nibbled her neck. Mirielle's hands worked open his shirt, sliding over his taught muscles. When he broke the kiss she ran her tongue over his flat male nipple. His hands roved over her and up under the top of the costume. She moaned happily as he kissed her again.

He turned her in his arms, his hands slid over her belly and to the drawstring on her trousers. His warm breath teased the shell of her ear as she relaxed against him, his hands sliding the trousers down her hips.

What sense of modesty she might have held onto fell away with the bottom of the costume. He pulled her down onto his lap on the sofa where they lost themselves in complete and blissful surrender to the other.

* * *

Erik sat with Mirielle snuggled in the curve of his arm. His rapidly pounding heart began to slow in the calm following their lovemaking. He felt her sigh against his neck.

"Erik, will you teach me something?"

"Pray tell, Madame?"

She wiggled on his lap. He made an appreciative sound. Leaning close to his ear she whispered. He turned his face to hers, his eyes a fiery gold. In the dim light the curve of her cheek felt warm, as if she blushed.

"In Arabic?"

She nodded. "You said things while you…"

He smiled lazily and whispered in her ear. Little minx that she was, she'd remember those words. Hearing them from her would make one of their encounters all the more erotic.

"_Habibty_," he told her. "It means I love you, my _nur el kamar_."

She was doing it again. Looking so soft and lovely in the faint gold light of the fireplace. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Are there times you take off your mask?"

He felt the awful weight of her words settle upon his chest. Anger threatened to slowly suffocate him. Pursing his lips to still the cry that would escape him, he sat holding her loosely.

She lifted her fingers to hold his chin. Her voice was tremulous. "I only want you to know that I love you. I would be pleased if you wished to share everything with me."

He felt the wave of tension coiling inside. It was happening once again. Curiosity prevailed over even love. She wanted to pry away the one last defense that gave him any dignity in the world of mankind.

"I see." Her voice was flatter. She rested on his lap, seeming unsure of her next words. "You remember our first night? You watched my face when we joined for the first time."

Erik willed his body to relax, his hands to rest lightly upon her. She'd glimpsed the tormenting fire and now doused the flames with the reminder of how wonderful their first night had been.

"Promise me, one day you will make a very naughty dream come true for me," she confessed. "Sometime in the darkness, will you make love to me without your mask?"

The air around him vibrated with the release of his anger. With every breath he became more aware of how she melted against him in complete trust.

"It's your fantasy isn't it?" She said against his throat. "To hold a woman beneath you and make love to her without the mask."

His breathing growing more rapid, he swallowed thickly. "Yes." He whispered roughly, achingly; an admission of something so terrible it bordered upon profane to even admit it to her.

Mirielle must have understood that there are moments between lovers when no words are needed. She kissed his chin; her fingers teasing his neck, making an involuntary shiver run through him. She grinned happily. "Would you care for..?"

"Light of my darkness. Are you suggesting we…" he mouthed words into her ear as she melted against him.

* * *

Erik sighed, feeling lethargic right down to his toes. His bones even felt like lead. Mirielle lay with her head resting upon his shoulder, snuggled close to him on the bed in the guest room. He smiled in the dim light as she shifted her delicious round rump against him. "Is this what it shall be like when we marry?"

Mirielle sighed. "I think so." Her head lifted. "We just won't have to get dressed to send me home in a cab."

Erik stroked her arm lightly. "Do you have to go so soon?"

She moaned. "It's probably two in the morning, Erik."

"Exactly," he growled against her hair. "I doubt we could find a cab."

"You sound hopeful," she accused.

He pulled her tighter against him. "Always, dearest girl. We could get you a cab in the morning," he let the suggestion hang in the air.

"Mmmmm. All right."

He let his fingers run down her arm and back up her shoulder, brushing up under the end of her dark hair. He lifted it and brought it closer. She always smelled so delicious. If she were a dessert, he would be as huge as a house from imbibing. He always wondered if being nose less meant he smelled things more or less acutely than others.

He rested a hand upon her hip and was about to place a kiss on her cheek when he realized her breathing was slower. Erik let his hand brush her with a bit more pressure. When she didn't respond, he reared up to look at her face.

"Mirielle?"

She had collapsed back to sleep. He lifted her hand and let it drop. He stared down at her wondering if being a man he should be insulted by her succumbing to sleep when he was entertaining other hopes.

He blinked in the darkness and lay down. Fitting his body against hers as she lay on her side; he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly at how warm she kept him.

* * *

Erik gave her hand on last squeeze as Mirielle stepped towards the cab. She smiled almost shyly over her shoulder at him. Thinking quickly he asked, "Dinner?"

"Tonight? Where?"

"I'll pick you up. What time are you free?"

"I should be done by four-thirty," she replied stepping into the cab.

He pushed the door closed. "Seven o'clock?"

She smiled brightly. Putting her fingers to her lips she blew him a kiss. "Seven."

He watched the cab pull away from the curb.

* * *

Mathurin La Chance kicked his suit away from the bottom of his wardrobe. He'd rinsed off a dozen times, but still felt as if the filth of Paris clung to every inch of him. He'd had to light the boiler when he got home and run a hot bath. He was shivering from the cold as much at the indignation of being herded like a sacrificial lamb into the Ghost's trap.

_Vachon_. The name had run in circles in his head with every step he took home, his shoes squelching. He'd parted company with Queval who had wandered off in search of a cab. That miscreant still worried over his crystal.

Fetching a long handled spoon from their small kitchen, he fished the jacket and trousers up off of the floor and dropped them into a bag. He'd drop them at a laundry service on his way in to the newspaper this morning.

He skipped his morning cup of coffee at the café and walked instead of taking a cab. He needed the cash for his next attempt at finding the Ghost.

* * *

Mirielle stifled a yawn and sipped her cup of tea. The morning had been the sort of damp cold that found its way into every edge and seam to steal her warmth. Feeling a little tired didn't help either. The sooner she and Erik could marry and live together, the sooner she'd be able to get an uninterrupted nights' sleep.

_You are such a liar_, the voice in her head replied. _You loved every minute wandering the Opera last night. _She felt herself smile as the steam from the cup brushed her face.

She finished the sandwich she had hurriedly made before coming to work. Holding the cup, she sipped the last of her tea and prepared to go back into the shop.

* * *

La chance rapped on the door and stepped back off of the stoop. Paris addresses were sometimes a bit touchy to interpret. A door with number 'thirty-one' on it followed by a letter might actually be for an upstairs room around at the back of the building.

The door swung inward revealing a tall silhouette in the entry. "Yes?"

He pulled a card from his pocket. "I'm searching for Madame Claretie."

The figure reached out and grasped his arm, pulling him into the hallway. From the small overhead lamp he took in the tall woman's brassy blond hair. Her large hand was decorated with Chinese Red fingernails, and her Amazonian frame was draped in a shimmering jade colored silk. "Come in."

He removed his hat and stepped towards an open door along the hall, conscious of the curious feeling of eyes roving his back. He paused waiting for the woman. She stood eye to eye with him, frankly looking him over.

"Please, call me Solange," she purred in a low, smoky voice. "What can I do for you, Monsieur?"

La Chance considered the list of her assumed qualifications. Precognition being one, she should have been able to tell him why he'd come. He thought for a moment of how much this avenue of investigation was going to cost him.

"I'm searching for a man," he began.

Solange smirked. "Aren't we all?" She waved him to a chair beside a table that sported a crystal ball perched on a brass tripod.

He stood waiting for her to seat herself, artfully arranging her skirt about her legs. He noticed her fingers seemed long, her palm thick. Looking at the shoe that peaked from under her hem he thought it was closer in size to his own than any woman's he had ever seen. He sat carefully on the edge of the chair.

"I'm looking for the fellow that inhabits the Garnier. They refer to him as the Opera Ghost."

Solange sat back with a slight smile. "I've heard the stories." She clasped her hands together. "I once had a roommate who was a dancer. Such a graceful creature." She looked away. "Why are you seeking this man?"

Nonplussed by her question he replied, "I wish an interview with him for my paper."

She stared at him a moment. "Have you asked him?"

He opened his mouth then closed it again. Surely it couldn't be that simple.


	39. Rituals

**Chapter Thirty-seven: Rituals**

Solange Claretie regarded La Chance across the table. "What do you hope to do with this interview?"

La Chance glanced at the reflection of her red nails that appeared in the crystal ball. Setting an arm upon the table he raised a shoulder. "Make money, of course. I'm paid to come up with articles to print."

She raised a hand to her hair, pushing it away from her cheek. She had some sort of sparkling powder brushed across her eyelids which were lined like an Egyptian woman La Chance had seen in a picture. She sighed audibly. "You know, I believe that even in this day and age with science answering questions that there is still a little magic in the world."

La chance watched her fingers trail over the table and up the arm of her dress. It draped over her in silken folds like a roman toga. A simple gold chain hung around her neck, the pendent hidden from view in what he realized was the deep valley between her breasts. Despite her overlarge hands and feet, the woman had some interesting curves.

"If you reveal this man, more of that magic will fade."

"You can't be serious," he retorted.

"Can I give you a suggestion?" she asked with a slight smile.

Not really caring to hear it, he nodded anyway. "Go on."

She rested a hand on the crystal ball, her nails looking like drops of blood sliding down the orb. She spoke in a sing-song voice. "The last performance…"

La Chance saw her features were slack and her eyes fixed in the distance. He waited for her to speak again. There seemed to be a curious energy in the air around her.

She licked her lips. "The last performance…the dying lovers under the ground…."

"_Aida_?" He took a note book from his pocket. The final performance was in three weeks.

"Four men in coats….a feather…" she blinked and refocused her gaze upon his face.

"What is going to happen?"

She sat back, looking tired. "The story you've been waiting for."

He got to his feet, picking up his hat. "How much do I owe you?"

She wiggled her fingers in a shooing motion. "Pay me the next time we collaborate."

He bid her a good evening and saw himself to the hall door hearing the rustle of her dress behind him.

* * *

Nadir brushed a hand down his coat and flicked his finger through his mustache. Despite the chill air in the stairwell, he felt very warm. Taking a breath, he lifted his hand and knocked upon Mirielle's apartment door.

The door swung upon revealing a tall woman who peered at him in surprise. "Yes?"

He whisked off his hat and smiled. "I am..."

"Nadir."

Mirielle moved into the doorway with a smile. "Come in."

"Thank you," he said to the woman in the doorway.

"This is Ursulé, Ursulé this is Nadir. He's here to see Catherine."

The tall woman smiled brightly. "Please, come in. May I take that for you?"

He offered her the baking dish he carried. "It is _Mirza Ghasemi_; a favored dish from my homeland." Someone coughed delicately behind him. Turning, Mirielle stood with Catherine by her side.

"Catherine…."

"We introduced ourselves," Catherine said lightly. "How are you Nadir?"

"I am very well, thank you. Mirielle though it would be all right if I came over."

"But of course. We've made a little supper, and it appears Mirielle is going to leave us for another evening with that fellow of hers," Catherine slid a glance at Mirielle. "But don't worry. You won't be the only rooster in the hen house," she teased.

Nadir turned as someone else knocked upon the door. Ursulé brightened. She swung open the door and motioned a tall stout looking man into the apartment. "Clément, this is Nadir."

The man offered a large hand and a friendly smile. "Pleased to meet you."

"How do you do?"

In his other hand was something wrapped in white paper. "Mirielle said you follow your food restrictions. I picked this up from Hamza al-Mabrad. He says it is suitable for you."

"You know Hamza?"

"Of course," Clément replied. "We're both butchers."

Nadir straightened and turned to Mirielle, who nodded confirming his first thought. This was the pork butcher!

He felt someone's hand on his arm, and turned to smile at Catherine. "Let me take your coat. Would you like something to drink?"

Mirielle slid quietly out the door as Catherine led Nadir towards the sofa.

* * *

The cab appeared, and Mirielle hurried out her apartment building's door. The wind had pushed the heavy clouds over the city. Sleet had come down steadily not an hour before.

Erik's dark shape alit, offering a gloved hand. He wore his dark cape. It unfurled in the wind and folded about her like a bird's wing. He closed the door as she arranged her skirts about her on the seat of the cab.

"Hello," she said, still breathless.

"I got word to the restaurant. We have a little over an hour before they will be ready for us."

"An hour?" She laced her fingers over her bag. "What shall we do?"

"I told them we'd come to the back of the restaurant. The chef said we could have his office," he waved a hand, "sit and have a drink to start with."

"That's fine." Anything was fine, everything was fine. The world was a lovely blue ball that rolled around bringing daylight and dark. She was with Erik and that was all that mattered.

"I thought you might want to take a drive first."

"To where?"

"Have you ever been inside La Madeleine?"

"The church?" She let her happiness bubble to the surface in a smile. "Oh, I'd love to see it."

As the cab rolled to a stop along the side of the steps that led up to the doors of the church, Erik took a quick look out of the window. Stepping out, he offered a hand to Mirielle who climbed down with a small smile upon her face. He bade the driver wait, and escorted her to the doors.

As he pushed open one of the decorated bronze doors, voices greeted them. Mirielle paused by his side. He took her arm and whispered, "_Sicut Cervus_ by Palestrina."

They walked quietly along the outer edge of the nave and took up seats where they could listen to the choir. Erik could not have wished for a more beautiful way to introduce Mirielle to the church. The expanse that might have seemed empty now teemed with the joyous beauty of the voices.

When the song was finished, they proceeded up towards the high altar. At the back stood the sculpture of St Mary Magdalene being carried to heaven by two angles. Mirielle stood, with the slight curve of a smile on her face much the same as the night he had first taken her to dinner. She turned her head and he saw tears shinning in her eyes.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

Standing with her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow, Erik found himself speechless. It might be the next time that they stood here that she would vow to love him till death parted them. He closed his eyes, exhaling. "I've never felt so full," he whispered.

Her eyes picked up the shimmering of candles nearby. She curled both hands about his arm and gave a squeeze.

He didn't need to hear her speak. Her emotions were written upon the serene look of her face. He'd made her a happy woman by merely being Erik. Like the earth and the moon, they would circle each other until the universe returned to the dark unknown.

He turned her away from the altar and walked quietly towards the doors, listening to the choir's voices rise once more. He didn't even mind that the tall fellow in the back kept murdering the high note he was attempting to achieve.

* * *

Catherine and Ursulé took up spots by the door to the small kitchen. Clément and Nadir stood with their coats off, sleeves rolled back and aprons strung around their waists.

Checking the dish he brought, Nadir slid a glance at the ladies. "We have many favored ingredients: Saffron, coriander, cinnamon, figs, dates, walnuts and almonds."

"You eat a lot of rice, don't you?" Clément asked.

"We use potatoes and varieties of wheat as well. And," he indicated a small tray, "our breads." Tearing off a piece of the round, flat loaf, he offered pieces to everyone.

"I wasn't sure if you were allowed wine," Catherine said. "We bought a Shiraz to go with the lamb."

Nadir leaned against the sink. "We still drink wine. I come from a province that skirts the Caspian Sea. A lot of people drink the Russian Vodka."

"So, if I offered you wine, I wouldn't be leading you astray?" Catherine teased, holding up the bottle and the corkscrew.

Nadir pursed his lips. "I think I should quite enjoy that."

"The wine or the straying?"

"Yes," he replied with a smile.

She chuckled, a marvelous throaty sound that made his heart flip over.

* * *

"In a moment, the last of the customer will be out. We'll have your table ready."

"Thank you, La Duc," Erik replied. Picking up his glass, he held out a hand for Mirielle, who had sat perched on the office chair while he occupied a stool near it.

"I do hope Nadir is having a good time. I think Catherine liked him right away."

"He'll be fit to be tied until he tells me tomorrow morning. He used to be a policeman, so he's very thorough in his details."

Mirielle shot him a sidelong glance. "How much do you tell him?"

He grinned. "As little as possible. It irks him to no end."


	40. Plans To Be Made

**Chapter Thirty-eight: Plans To Be Made**

Mirielle sat her drink upon the table as Hughes Duschense held her chair for her. Erik took his seat, noting the young man's bashful smile. La Duc followed almost immediately with hot plates of rabbit in mustard sauce and chilled wine.

Erik spread a hand on the table cloth. "Now that we have a church, what about a date?"

Mirielle grinned, resting her hands in her lap. "Is the groom getting impatient?"

"I am the soul of patience. As my constant companion, it has sat close to my shoulder and kept me on course." He exhaled. "I can wait forever, Mirielle."

She felt a pain in her chest. "You don't have to."

He lifted his glass. "To my fiancée."

Mirielle lifted hers in response. With a soft clink the glasses met and they smiled at one another. "We shall have to introduce you to the girls."

Erik sipped the wine, its tangy bouquet melting over his tongue when he nearly choked upon it. Covering his lips, he coughed. "The…girls," he managed.

"Yes. I'll send them a telegram tomorrow." She tilted her head and peered at him. "You do take public transportation, don't you?"

His last trip was to Perros-Guirec to keep an eye upon Christine and her popinjay. "Do you mean cabs or trains?"

"Trains, darling. The girls stayed in Muizon. It's just at the edge of Reims. Have you ever been there?" She popped a bite of rabbit in her mouth.

"I don't recall visiting there. I was young, and after so many attempts to escape, I was only let out of my cage on a chain."

A wave or pity swept over her, but Mirielle concentrated her gaze upon a slice of vegetable in her salad. She'd shave off her hair before she would let this man see that emotion on her face. It was here, only a few months ago, that he had told her he required more than that.

Thinking of a way to herd the conversation back to her children she brightened. "You know," she said lightly, "that Notre-Dame de Reims is where the kings were crowned."

She flicked a glance at Erik. He sat mirroring her with a fork in hand. She fancied that under the mask he might be frowning in concentration. "There's also the Saint Remi Basilica, and a place called the Martian Gate. An old Roman temple to Mars was built there originally."

"A temple to Mars?"

She kept her lips soft. If Erik saw her smile, he'd know for certain she was trying once again to distract his line of thinking. "The city is in the Champagne district. There are caves where the local vintners age the champagne."

"Mmhmm."

"Miles of caves and tunnels dug in the chalk by the Romans." She let her voice drift.

The mask tilted upward, his amber eyes were mere slits. "You're doing that on purpose aren't you?"

Mirielle lifted her glass, allowing her eyes to drift closed as she met the brim with her lips. "I just thought you would be interested in the local architecture, since it's a hobby of yours."

"A hobby?" His voice dripped with indignation. "The Palais Garnier is not a _hobby_!"

"Certainly not. I apologize if I offended you, dear man." She adopted her contrite face. "I simply though with all that history stretching back to the Romans that it might give you something else to look forward to during our visit."

"I thought you said your daughters lived in Muizon."

"Yes. It's about four hours by train. We could spend a day or two with them, and take a little sightseeing trip." She lifted a potato. "I know how you are about stone."

Erik washed a bite of his salad down with his wine. "What do you mean?"

"I've seen you looking at the tile and the marble in the Garnier. When you walk down the stairs, your fingers practically caress the stone. And your mantel, remember? You were quick to point out what sort of limestone it was."

"Hmm. Yes. I thought since you seemed interested in it."

"I am." She put her fork down. "You know, when you are busy, and that's most of the years of raising children, you have little time to really take a look at the world around you. It's nice being retired. I appreciate the little things I would have passed by without a thought."

He could remember gazing at the world beyond the cage. Listening to the birds sing and the insects. He'd stare happily at wildflowers. When buildings came into view it meant it was time to pitch tents and pull the mask off once again. He'd dreamed of being able to walk inside the great churches and homes. If only the world would give him the chance to leave a beautiful mark behind.

"You are quiet, Erik. You aren't worried over this trip are you?"

With a fine dinner, a pleasant visit to the church, and the only obstacle between marrying Mirielle the pending visit to her daughters, he had to chide himself. "I think I can manage."

"Thank you, darling."

He felt her foot brush his leg under the table. Pausing with the fork half way to his mouth he shot her a glance. She sat smiling as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, the little rogue.

"That just leaves sleeping arrangements when we get there."

"You and Nadir."

Her face fell. "I beg your pardon?"

"The two of you make a statement and then let the other shoe drop."

"I just thought it would give you time to think about hotel rooms."

Erik had never had an epiphany in his life until this moment. The clouds rolled away to reveal Mirielle reclining on a bed with only a smile on. Or perhaps, the harim costume could go with them. "You send your telegram, and I'll have Nadir arrange passage on the train."

* * *

"Oh, that was wonderful." Ursulé sat back in her chair. "Did you like it, Clément?"

"Mmmm," he agreed, setting down his wine glass. "Spectacular use of spice."

Nadir nodded graciously. "Thank you. I'm pleased you enjoyed it. Did you like it Catherine?"

The woman sitting to his right sighed. "Thank that Darius fellow for us. That was superb."

"I'm very lucky to have him with me. He followed me from Persia."

"That must be quite an adventure. It also must be taking a lot of chances. You left your families."

"Yes. Sometimes life hands you the end of a rope and you have no recourse but to follow along and see what is at the other end of it." And hope it wasn't Erik's lasso.

"Is that like being at the end of one's wits?" Catherine laughed her throaty laugh once again and Nadir felt it as keenly as if she had run fingers along his neck.

He picked up his glass, hoping he wasn't grinning like an untried school boy. "I would be please to invite you all to my home. Darius would leap at the chance to impress you with more of our cuisine."

Pleased sounds greeted his question. "Since you ladies have been Mirielle's companions, I have a question."

"Go on," Catherine prompted.

"I believe in both our countries that the future couple indulges in a sort of celebration before the wedding. In Persia, the bride and her friends often have a night together where the bride is decorated with henna."

Ursulé looked questioningly at him. "I'm not familiar with that term."

"It is a prepared mixture of the henna plant used to trace decorative lines upon the hands and feet of the bride. It can take hours for a design to be completed, but once it is done, it can stay upon her skin for weeks.

"Henna is used in celebration of an event in a person's life. The ladies get together with their friends and prepare the bride to look beautiful for her groom. Many of the patterns have been passed down for generations."

"That sounds interesting." Catherine glanced at Ursulé. "I think Mirielle would like that. But how are we going to learn to henna?"

Nadir sat back with a smile. "I shall find some ladies in my community to help you. I'll provide the food and drink, you two just provide the blushing bride."

"It's a deal," Catherine agreed.

* * *

"Do you want anything for dessert?" Erik asked.

Mirielle blotted the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "No. I'm quite full. If you keep feeding me like this, I shall have to let out all my dresses." She considered him for a moment. "All of that weaving in and out of the rafters in the Opera must agree with you."

He lifted a hand. "I've always been physical."

Mirielle felt her cheeks grow warm. He must have noticed for his amber eyes studied her face.

"Goodness," she said with laughter bubbling up to her lips.

The curve of a smile appeared at the edge of his mask. "Miles of dark, quiet tunnels."

She practically shivered in anticipation.

* * *

Shaking hands with Ursulé and Clément, Nadir turned to accept his hat from Catherine. The other couple discreetly retreated to the kitchen. "Would you care for another dinner together?"

Catherine linked her arm through his and turned him towards the door. "I would be most happy to see you again, Nadir. Did you enjoy your evening?"

"Yes. I'm pleased you found our cuisine to your liking."

"I did." She smiled.

The moment had come. Being around Europeans, Nadir had watched this scene played out with great trepidation. As it was their first evening together, he offered her a hand. She draped hers lightly over it, expecting a kiss upon it.

As he bent, her arm retreated. He stepped closer as his lips nearly brushed her skin. Another step, and he was suddenly aware of the lace edge of her delecotage entered his view. He quickly planted a kiss on her hand and stood up smiling. Close. So close, to back away would be rude.

She had beautiful eyes. He wondered if her fiery colored hair was a soft as it looked. "Jasmine," he said softly.

"Do you like it?" She lifted a wrist towards him.

_Allah_. "I adore it." He breathed deeply, closing his eyes.

"Oh, good," came her throaty reply. "I shall wear it for you again."

He bowed, and stepped out of the door. "Thank you for the wonderful evening, Catherine."

"Good night, Nadir." Her smile was a seductive curve.

He slid on his hat and turned away from the apartment knowing exactly why Erik had requested the _harim _costume.

* * *

Paul Crosnier counted out the last items from the latest delivery. He heard the shop door being locked and watched his wife walk towards him. Married for nearly two years, Hilarie still made his breath seize in his chest. The beautiful young woman he had courted was now the mother of his first child.

Hilarie was dark haired like her parents, with dark brown eyes. Her figure had filled to match her mother's as well. He had just been hired to help her mother with the shop after her father's first stroke when he had met her.

She now walked quickly, offering something in her hand. He took it, seeing it was a telegram. "What is it Hil?"

"Mama," she stammered. "Mama wants to visit."

"That's wonderful news. Her new job must be…."

"She's bringing a man."

"A man?"

"A man! She wants us to meet her fiancé!"

Before he could congratulate his wife, she made an angry noise. "How could she? Papa isn't even cold in his grave."

"It's been a year. With your Father's health failing, we knew it wouldn't be long."

"I know that. But this," she pointed imperiously at the paper. "This means she's gone to Paris not for the work, but to hunt for a man."

Paul sat down the telegram and gathered his wife in his arms. "She's still a woman, Hil. It isn't like she's some ancient matron in her dotage. She said she was going to the opera with someone. Is this the same someone?"

"I think so." She rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm afraid for her, Paul. You know how Mama can be so gullible."

He nearly snorted out loud but thought better of it seeing her mood. "Look, your parents ran this store for years. I don't think your Mother is a lack wit."

"She's so trusting," Hilarie reminded him.

Remembering their assignations as new lovers, he often thought her Mother and Father understood what was really going on while they were courting. "Yes, but she isn't about to just throw herself at the first man she meets. Men always liked your Mother."

She gave him a dubious look. Since the birth of Henri, her figure had filed out like Mirielle's. She made a disgusted sound. "She always said they talked below her neck."

He couldn't help but laugh. The comment was his mother-in-law to a tee. "It isn't like she doesn't know the difference between love and infatuation. She's in love or she wouldn't be coming to bring her gentleman."

"I wish I was as sure as you were."

"Wait till they arrive, you'll see."


	41. Degrees

**Chapter Thirty-nine: Degrees**

Erik placed the coins on the edge of the composer's bust. Walking back to one of the myriad corridor doors, he paused and listened for the footsteps down the stairs. Peeking through the door, he glimpsed a young lad scooping up the coins and hurriedly depositing the Paris' paper behind the bust. The boy took off like a shot back up the stairs.

Erik walked unhurriedly through the corridors. The cleaning women were busy in the auditorium, the entertainers were still snoring, and the managers were off doing what ever it was they did to earn their paychecks. Morning was a sedate and blissful time in the Garnier.

At least, it was until he turned the corridor to his box and saw Nadir Kahn hastily step inside. Folding the paper under his arm, Erik quickened his pace. He arrived just short of Nadir pulling the door closed. Stepping aside so he could not be seen from the window, Erik took hold of the knob and held it so that Nadir could not pull it closed.

After a series of quick jerks at the knob, and muttered Persian invectives, Nadir finally stepped out into the hall way. "Who's there?" he demanded.

Erik felt his lips quirk and stifled the urge to laugh. He let go of the door and watched the knob as Nadir stood testing it from the other side.

"Hmmph!" Nadir stepped into box five and tried pulling the door again.

This time, Erik was prepared. He gave a sharp tug at the door and it swung out into the hallway as Nadir reached for the handle.

"What on earth?" Nadir's dark head appeared at the edge of the door. "You devil," he groused. "You are worse than a child. Always up to something!"

Erik finally laughed. "Come, Nadir. If we didn't play our games, what mischief could a pair of old codgers such as we get up to? Hmmm?"

Nadir straightened his jacket and turned back to take a chair in the box. "You are an overgrown bully sometimes, Monsieur."

Erik snorted. "It comes with practicing on some of my more unrefined traveling companions." Erik sat and looked over his companion. "Well? How was your evening?"

A smile lit the Persian's features, making him look half his age. "It went very well. Everyone liked the dish I brought."

"What was it?"

"Just some bread and a pan of _Mirza Ghasemi. _Darius was quite happy to make it."

Erik tsked. "You don't bring me any…"

"We go to the restaurant," Nadir protested. "Perhaps now that there is going to be a Madame Ghost, you'll come over for dinner."

The dark silk of Erik's mask turned downward. Nadir looked at him though narrowed eyes. "What have you done now?"

Erik's head snapped up. "Nothing. We are fine. Mirielle is sending a telegram to her daughters. She wants me to meet them."

Nadir sat staring at Erik. "You have daughters?"

"Well, I don't. I mean, I hadn't until now. They are grown and married. One has a son."

"_Allah_. You are a grandfather?"

"Shh. Keep your voice down," Erik groused casting a glance into the auditorium. He settled back with his arms crossed over his chest. "Yes," he replied with exaggerated care. "In one fell swoop I shall be a husband, a father, and a grandfather."

Nadir sat back and shook his head in disbelief. "Daughters…."

Erik's lips grimaced at the edge of his mask. "That's what I kept repeating. It's a wonder Mirielle didn't think I'd lost my wits."

"Dau-"

"Yes, yes, Nadir. Really, you'd think I wasn't capable of this sort of thing the way you go on."

Nadir sat silent for a moment. "What will you tell them?"

Erik resumed his taciturn silence. "I don't know. I've barely been able to tell Mirielle."

"But you have told her, haven't you?" The Persian's face adopted a pained look. "You didn't lie to her."

"No," Erik declared. "I've brought it up repeatedly, and we do talk about it to some degree."

"How many degrees?"

Erik lifted a hand. "Well, a lot of degrees after she saw the coffin."

Nadir blinked. "She saw the coffin and she's still here?"

"Yes she did, and she is." He paused and took a deep breath. "She wore the costume for me, Nadir. She listened to me talk of the gypsies and Persia, and she stayed with me." He turned his golden eyes to Nadir. "How have I been so blessed?

Despite his continued surprise Nadir replied, "You should know not to question fate by now, Erik. Your life has been a continual struggle. Perhaps Allah has granted you this for all of your pain." He reached for Erik's face.

"Don't kiss me, Nadir!"

Looking perplexed, the Persian shrugged. "Why not? It is a widely held custom in Islamic countries. It's a greeting; it's an act of …"

Erik backed away. "You aren't in Persia and I'm a Catholic!" he huffed. "It's an act of two…er…effeminate men in France. You know," he dangled his hand from a limp wrist.

"Those fellows."

Nadir cocked his head. "Are you saying that your masculinity would be challenged if I were to bestow a kiss upon your cheek? Am I hearing you correctly? The man who can kill with one thin rope as fast as a cobra can sink it's fangs into a man, is afraid of a kiss from a friend?"

Erik made a disgusted noise. "I'd rather kiss Mirielle."

Nadir snickered. "I'll kiss you at your wedding! I'll talk to Mirielle and she'll make you stand still for it." He sat back, clapping his hands. He hooted at Erik. "Now you are really going to learn the power a woman has over a man."

"Don't be absurd. Mirielle wouldn't stoop to that sort of thing."

Nadir continued to titter, which piqued the Ghost. "She's making you meet her daughters isn't she?"

"That is different," Erik protested. "They will be in my family."

Nadir retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket. "_Allah_, Erik, you have much to learn about women."

Under his mask, his brow arched. "Exactly what?"

"That costume. You think she'll be wearing that after some argument?"

"My wife will not be withholding my connubial rights from me because she's in a tiff," Erik grated out.

The Persian attempted vainly not to snort out loud. "Of course," he replied calmly, ruining it when he laughed again. "But I'm still going to kiss you."

Erik growled low in his chest. "Priest or no, I'm bringing my lasso!"

Nadir's laughter wound down. "I wouldn't miss your wedding for the world. When is it?"

"We haven't picked a date yet. Mirielle's got to get time off from her job and then we shall go up by train, which reminds me," he picked up the paper. "I will need accommodations. Will you handle that for me?"

"It would be my pleasure. Do you want me to secure a private compartment for the journey?"

"No," Erik replied taking out his bank book. "I want a private car."

"I don't know if that can be arranged. It's hard to push people out of the car if they've paid for the ticket."

"Not if I own the car, Nadir. I shall pick one out to purchase, and you shall arrange for it to make the trip to Muizon. I shall also require hotel accommodations. I'll let you know what cities and what dates. I'd prefer it if the entire floor was mine." Erik paused. "You're sitting with your mouth open, Nadir."

"Can you buy an entire rail car?"

"Yes, I can." Erik flipped open the bank book. "Perhaps Mirielle and I could do some traveling on our honeymoon."

* * *

A day later, Nadir sat before the desk of the President of the Paris Rail. Standing next to the man were three rather irritated looking assistants.

"That's not possible," the President replied. "We cannot allow private citizens to purchase rail cars."

"Why not? There are trains for the Emperor and trains for the circus and trains for foreign dignitaries."

"We can't set a precedent like this. Everyone will want their own car."

An assistant piped in, "Everyone with large sums of money, that is." He pointed to the bottom line of the contract.

"Exactly," Nadir went on in a soothing voice.

The President looked over the contract. "You'll get word from us tomorrow."

Mirielle found the note on the table by her apartment door. Shaking the rain off of her hat, she picked up the envelope with a smile. Sliding it open she read:

_My dearest,_

_I've arranged for passage to Muizon. You simply must say the dates._

_Shall we do some shopping before we leave? I'll come by on Thursday, _

_since I know that is your day off._

_Erik_

"Shopping?" she mused.

Thursday afternoon, Mirielle stood in a furniture store. "What exactly are we looking for?"

Erik gestured towards a settee. "Try this one."

As Mirielle stepped up to the edge of the seat and sat down she heard Erik add, "I've purchased a rail car for the trip. We'll need furniture for it." Looking up sharply, she missed the edge and slid off onto the floor.

Erik snatched her hand and helped her up. "Are you all right, my dear?"

"Goodness," she muttered, dusting off her bustle. "Did you say you _purchased_ a rail car?"

"Certainly. That way our privacy shall not be intruded upon."

"Erik," she protested. "People don't purchase cars. They buy tickets."

"I'm not people, and you know how I prefer not to be stared at."

Nonplussed, she tried not to stare at him now. Blinking in confusion she glanced around the shop. "Exactly what do you do for a living?"

It was Erik's turn to blink. "What?"

"Your work. Your employment, darling. The girls will want to know as well."

"Whatever for? I shan't be providing for their welfare."

"No, but they will want to know that I am taken care of." She paused and grimaced. "You don't need to make extravagant purchases. I'll love you just the same."

Erik considered his answer. "I don't have employment, exactly. I have means, and as such, I don't need to seek employment."

"I see," she said looking back at the settee.

"I can take care of you, Mirielle. In fact, you won't have to work after we are married." He lifted a hand. "You could quit now for that matter."

"I'm, oh, I'm not sure." She stood looking about her.

Sensing her dismay, Erik took her by the elbow and guided her to the seat of the furnishing they stood by. "What is it?"

Her tongue darted to lick her lips. "Erik, when I went to the matchmaker…."

"Yes?"

"I remember him saying you were a man of means of some degree." She looked at him, strangely upset. "You were reluctant when we were seeing each other. Did you keep pushing me away because you believed I was after your money?"

It seemed being associated with Mirielle had one consequence. They came to situations where Erik felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a mule. This was another one of those situations. "Absolutely not," he told her.

Mirielle looked into his golden eyes. "I wouldn't want you to ever think that of me," she said with a tremor in her voice. "I have a job. I share my apartment. I'm actually starting to put some money aside."

She didn't realize she was nearly frantic. Erik took hold of her hands. "Stop this, dear girl. I never entertained that thought about you." He brushed a hand on her cheek. "Take a deep breath, Mirielle. You are looking quite flush."

"I never considered…."

"I know," he said quietly. "Put that thought right out of your head. You've been honest with me every step of the way." He gave her a moment to regain her composure. "Come, we have a car to furnish and a trip to make."

She smiled. "I'm surprised you didn't try to buy the hotel in Muizon."

"I did, but thought better of it. After the rail car is fitted, I can have a spur of track laid where we can be parked when we visit our grandson."


	42. Bright Birds

**Chapter Forty: Bright Birds**

Erik poured over the drawings he'd made after surveying the existing frame of the rail car. It had been appointed as a traveling office with a pair of staterooms and small, separate accommodations for a servant that included the car's tiny kitchen. Not including the car's entry platform and vestibule, the usable section of it was just over sixty-six feet long, ten feet wide and fourteen feet tall.

After taking a cab to the rail yard with Nadir, he'd returned armed with ideas of how to make the car into a traveling cottage for Mirielle. In a span of three days, he'd found a contractor who repaired rail cars who was willing to make the changes he required.

Nadir had been invaluable in running his errands. Deliveries were scheduled to be made promptly so that carpets could be installed and the furnishings put in place.

He took up the last sketch. This was the master state-room, and in it would reside a brass bed. The water closet connected to it through a door, and the mahogany paneling of the room matched the built-in wardrobe he had designed for the space. The only thing it lacked was the small touches that Mirielle would bring to it.

* * *

The weather relented, allowing an almost startling bright day to Paris. Mirielle blinked as she looked out her window. "He should be here any minute."

Ursulé glanced up from the kitchen table. "Another shopping trip?"

"He wants to show me the changes to the car."

Catherine sat her chin in her hand and gazed off into space. "How wonderfully romantic. Your own traveling hotel room."

Ursulé grinned. "Like those gypsy wagons in the country."

Mirielle turned to look at her room mates. "Would you like to see it?"

After hurriedly donning coats, hats, and coiling a stray ringlet or two around a finger, the ladies descended the stairs to await Mirielle's beau.

In the hustle of the late afternoon traffic, a large black brougham rolled to a stop before the building. Mirielle stepped out of the door leading Catherine with Ursulé tucked in the back as was her custom.

Catherine kept her eyes trained on the cab. The door was opened from the inside, the figure of a tall man stepped down upon the pavement. His dark greatcoat covered him to just below his knees, dark leather gloves encased his hands, and the wide brim of his dark hat covered his face as he looked down at Mirielle.

"My dear." He offered the hand to Mirielle, who rested hers like a small, pale bird within his curling fingers. Catherine caught her breath as she heard his voice. It encapsulated everything masculine: the steadfastness of the patriarch, the intimacy of the lover, the strength of the warrior.

But it was the actual lifting of his face that cemented Catherine's belief that the man before her was of a nature that could hardly be described in simplistic terms. Her mind searched until it put two words together: Fascinatingly dangerous.

It was not the blank expanse of black across his visage, or the set of his chin or lips. It was his eyes. The expression inside those tawny orbs made her feel he was looking inside her soul. The eyes shifted, a faint glowing, warm gold as they turned back to Mirielle. The intensity of his gaze made Catherine tingle.

She heard Mirielle murmur, 'Hello, Erik', and he bent to receive a kiss upon his masked cheek. Determined not to be rude, Catherine offered him her hand.

"I'm Catherine Jardaux. I hope you don't mind us coming along, Monsieur."

Erik fought the characteristic surge of unease as he glanced the women bustling along behind Mirielle. "How do you do," he responded, grasping the first woman's hand and assisting her into the cab. Behind her, the taller woman stood wringing her bag in her hands.

She dipped her head shyly. "How do you do? I'm Ursulé," she said in a breathy voice.

"How..do you do." The inside of the vehicle was chock-a-block with ribbons, flounces, bows, buttons, pleats, pin curls, wool, muslin, silk pongee, starched white collars, perfume and smiling lips. It was one of the most intimidating sights he'd seen in years.

_Steady_, he reminded himself, _you have to face daughters_. Stepping inside, he slid onto the seat next to Mirielle. She wound her arm through his.

"What are we looking at today?"

"The work on the car is nearly finished. I wanted to know of any personal touches you preferred." Was it his imagination or had the other two women sighed? They sat across from him, smiling. Somehow being stared at by tigers seemed less daunting.

"After seeing your sketches, I'm sure it will be wonderful, dear man," Mirielle said lightly.

Ursulé craned her neck, looking out the window. "There's Clément's shop."

"He's Ursulé's gentleman," Mirielle explained. "He's also our pork butcher."

_The pork butcher_. A short time ago he'd been suffering itchy fingers at the though of dropping the lasso over the fellow's head. He took note of the address of the shop.

Mirielle chatted with the ladies, saving Erik from attempting small talk. He despised conversations that went on and on about trivial nothings. Listening to people prattle on about the weather for the sake of warming up to a real subject drove him to distraction.

The sounds of the traffic on the streets began to stretch into the noise of the rail yard. A shrill whistle split the air as the cab rolled to a halt before the gate of the yard. Erik alit; looking along the tracks to be sure there was a clear path to the platform of stairs that led up the vestibule of the railcar. He offered a hand to each of his female companions, nodding in response as they thanked him with coy smiles.

He proceeded to follow the ladies, calculating if the tall one, Ursulé, was seeing the pork butcher, then the other, Catherine, must be the one who captured Nadir's interest. They made their way across the pavement near the car, skirts swishing, and their voices excitedly chorusing as they approached the stairs.

Erik strode around them, offering a hand as they climbed the steps. Ursulé ran a hand over the scrolled ironwork railing at the front while Catherine and Mirielle pushed slowly through the door.

He stood on the platform, watching the three women take in every detail. They moved as one, and paused together, breathless as they pointed out the lighting fixtures and gazed at the furnishings. They paused by the dinning table, dainty fingers tracing its surface, their profiles lit by gently curved smiles.

Catherine leaned forward as little, capturing his interest. "It's wonderful, Monsieur."

From the entryway with its small seating area, passed the dinning area and on to the hall where the two staterooms waited, Erik watched their rapt delight. He waited by the dinning table, listening to their hushed chatter and girlish giggles from the master stateroom.

Ursulé returned first. Her fair cheeks colored and her dark lashes fanned her cheeks. "Its absolutely lovely," she gushed.

Catherine came next, her eyes bright but appraising. "You and Mirielle shall be quite comfortable, I dare say."

"Thank you, ladies." Their unsolicited approval left Erik fearing the warmth in his cheeks was a blush. He recovered, looking at the smile on Mirielle's face as she stood in the small hallway. He knew beyond any reason that his accomplishments at the Opera paled in comparison to her joy.

"Its amazing, Erik."

Her softly spoken, heartfelt wonder meant more to him than any accolade that Paris or the world could have laid at his feet. He took her hand and brushed a kiss upon it. "My _nur el kamar._"

It wasn't his imagination this time. The three females puffed up and sighed in unison. "I thought you'd like to bring some of your things over, Mirielle," he said. "Would you like to pick out dishes or linens to stock the car with?"

She glanced at her watch pin. "Do we have time for that?"

"It's nearly four. The shops will be closing," Ursulé lamented.

"Nonsense," Erik replied boldly, with a flourish of his hand. "There isn't a shop keeper in Paris who will not stay late for people about to spend the amount of money we shall."

The three ladies giggled and headed for the door, putting him in mind of a small flock of garish hens. He ushered them back to the cab and once tucked inside, they sped off in search of things for Mirielle to feather her traveling nest with.

* * *

"Zacharie."

De Brie looked up from his coffee. "Hello, Mathurin. Found the Ghost yet?"

La Chance sat down without an invitation, hastily pushing his hat to one side of the table and running a hand through his hair. "Almost," he ground out. Lifting a hand, he held up fingers illustrating a gap. "I was this close, I tell you. Thinking back on it I doubt he wasn't walking right beside us!"

Zacharie dropped a sugar cube into his coffee cup and picked up the spoon making commiserating noises as La Chance went into a full-blown description of his latest escapade at the Opera. Holding up a hand, Zacharie stopped him. "A Para-what?"

"Never mind that. Suffice to say we tracked him through the building, but he must have been expecting us, for he rigged a machine to trap us."

"You are probably flattering yourself. You can't think you are the first or only man to try to find him."

"I do know one thing," La Chance retorted. "His name is Vachon."

"What?"

"Vachon, I said. There is a letter at the office of Delmaet and Durandelle that is signed by the man who devised a way to pump the water out of the way so the Opera could be raised. His name was Vachon, but there is no record of anyone registered who would qualify for that sort of work."

Zacharie was interested, despite himself. "That would account for how he knows every trap door in the stage." He sat back, waving a hand towards the table. "Aren't you having coffee?"

"Can't afford it," La Chance moaned. "I spent my last free cash on the Medium."

"Medium what?"

"A Medium. And hear this, she told me something was going to happen at the Opera. Something important."

"Another riot over a performance?"

La Chance bit back a retort. "No. I think it's something much worse. She mentioned a feathered hat and more importantly, she said, 'The dying lovers under the ground'."

"The dying lovers?"

"Yes! I thought she meant the last performance of _Aida_, where she and Radames are entombed together. But it occurred to me that Queval believed the Ghost lives under the Opera. If he does, could he and the Velvet Widow be the dying lovers?"

Zacharie might have waved La Chance's speculation off, but the man looked too upset to be making a wild conjecture. "What do you think is going to happen?"

"I'm not sure, but something important is going to occur."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I need your help…."

"Ah," De Brie sat back. "You want me to get you into the Opera." He held up a hand. "Sorry. I can't jeopardize my employment any more than you can. If the Managers find out…."

"What if she's right," La Chance cut in. "Wouldn't you try to help them? You seemed to be that woman's Knight Errant the day she came to the building."

"Her name is Mirielle, and yes, I'd want to help her." He paused eyeing the other man. "You really are upset about this aren't you?"

"Zacharie," he begged. "Something important is going to happen, and I think that woman and Vachon are either in on it or are going to be bystanders. Will you help me or not?"

De Brie looked down at the table top. If nothing were to occur, he'd waste a few evenings following La Chance around. If anything did happen…. He sat forward. "I want my name in the byline if any of this goes to print."

"You're on," La Chance shot back.

* * *

A/N: Delmaet and Durandelle was the firm Garnier worked for to accomplish the Opera. Besides detailed annual reports, there were over 200 photographs of the construction, plaster models of the building and the statuary, 600 conceptual drawings for the presentation, and 15,673 drawings of the actual work, some of which are hand sketches by Garnier himself. The annual budgets were affected by the reports that outlined the kinds and amounts of materials ordered and the numbers of contractors, craftsmen, and artists who could be hired.

The sugar cube was invented in 1841.


	43. Blue Stones

**Chapter Forty-one: Blue Stones**

The dark brougham pulled in to the curb before the shop. A tall man in a dark greatcoat stepped down and swung open the door. Monsieur Tourault's assistant looked over the new customer. He stepped forward. "May I help you, Monsieur?"

The man had his eyes trained elsewhere, but the assistant heard his voice. "I made an appointment with Monsieur Tourault."

"Yes, Monsieur. Your name is?"

"Vashon," came the reply.

The assistant stepped back. "One moment please." He walked into an office at the back of the shop. Waiting until his employer looked up, he stated, "There is a man in the shop who claims to have an appointment. His name is Vashon."

"Very good." Tourault checked his watch. "At least he's punctual." He arose from his work area and put several cases into his safe and spun the lock. "Show him in."

His assistant hesitated. "I think you should come out and meet him. He's…rather secretive."

"What? You think something is up?" Tourault pushed the jeweler's loupe away from his spectacles. "Very well." He tugged his vest down and straightened the sleeves of his coat. "Go along the counter and circle behind him. If he's up to no good, you bolt out the door and bring the police."

Erik took stock of the room. Display cases gleamed in the sconce lights, a small table and chair sat towards the back with an ornate mirror, no doubt so the ladies could see how they looked in their new purchase. Beside the door was a stand that held an umbrella and a cane with a carved silver handle. Several clocks hung on the wall, each ticking only a slight hesitation apart. The scent of wood polish said much about M. Tourault. He was proud of his shop, and knew the value of properly displaying his wares.

A tall man came forward. Grey streaked his dark, wiry hair and threaded though his droopy mustache. His slightly stooped stance could be a result of his myopia, but Erik surmised it was from hours spent bent over his workbench.

"May I help you Monsieur? I am César Tourault."

Reaching into his pocket, Erik withdrew a box. "I'd like to have this set."

Tourault bent, taking the box and peering up under the brim of the hat. "Can…my assistant…take your hat and coat?"

"That is not necessary, Monsieur."

The assistant sidled over to the small chair, dragging it forward, he bent low over it. "Would you like a seat?"

Erik suppressed the smile that tugged at his lips. "No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

The man was practically bent double. Erik sighed inwardly. The two of them would make him late if they continued this drivel. He cocked his head, pinning the young man with his eyes.

The boy fairly leaped in the air before heading for the door.

Spinning on his heel, Erik lunged. Lifting the cane from the stand, he hooked it around the younger man's arm and arrested the fellow's escape in mid-step.

Leading the boy back to the chair, Erik told him, "I'm sorry, young man. I have lived a life behind a mask for a reason that has nothing to do with robbery." He glanced at Tourault. "This sort of thing happens all the time. Do not be alarmed." He lifted a hand, indicating the box. "Have you looked at the stone?"

Tourault lay the box on the top of a display case and removed the top. Holding on to it, he stared into the box until his assistant extricated himself from the cane and came to peer along side.

Erik listened to the ticking of the clocks. Counting to ten several times over, he finally spoke. "I'd like it set in a necklace."

Tourault flipped his loupe down once more and gazed inside the box.

"You may touch it," Erik told him dryly.

"Get a cloth," Tourault instructed. His assistant dashed into the back room and came back with a dark piece of velvet. Spreading the cloth on the cabinet, Tourault lifted the stone. Setting it down, he smoothed his hands over the material and began shaking his head. "It will be an honor, Monsieur," he said solemnly.

Erik nodded. "Thank you. I'd like the smaller stone set in a ring. Gold I think will suit her. " Erik considered quietly while the clocks commented. "Yes, she wears gold." He turned his attention back to the jeweler. "I'd like something delicate."

Tourault straightened. "I must ask, Monsieur. Has someone named the stone?"

"Named it?" Erik thought back to the palace in Persian where he'd pried the bauble out of a statue along with another dozen or so. Nadir had been nearly apoplectic with shock, but didn't try to seize them back. No one dared touch the Khanum's Angel of Death.

He shook off the past and thought of Mirielle's lovely face. "Nur-el-kamar. My light of the moon…."

"How exquisite!" Tourault gushed. "This has got to be nearly thirty carats."

"Yes," Erik agreed. "I was thinking of a necklace; a pendant with the larger stone, and an engagement diamond from the smaller."

Cradling the large stone in his fingers, Tourault turned it in the light. "Perfect. An absolutely flawless blue diamond. Such rich color."

Erik leaned towards the display case. "Do you think you could set it like this?" He offered a sketch to the man.

"It would be an honor, Monsieur."

"Thank you." _You ninny. Stop fawning over it! _"Do you think it could be done in four days?"

The man seemed to snap awake. He and his assistant chatted, looking at a calendar. "By the third?"

"That would be acceptable," Erik replied.

"I'll write an estimate for you."

"No need," Erik said, turning on his heel. "I will be back on the third."

* * *

Mirielle licked her finger and tapped it quickly against the face of the iron. Satisfied by the sizzling sound, she put a cloth over the blouse that stretched on the ironing board and began ironing.

Ursulé sat, combing out her hair. "What will your daughters think of Erik?"

Mirielle rolled her eyes. "Hilarie is quite the mother hen, she'll have objections. Josette is much easier going, and her husband has a similar temperament. Those two will have no problem being fascinated with him."

"What about Erik. Is he excited to meet them?"

"I think he's warming up to the idea."

Catherine giggled. "If he plans on warming up next to you in bed, he'll have to be on his best behavior."

Mirielle smiled. "I think he'll be all right. In fact, I believe he is quite taken with the idea of being a grandfather. I wouldn't doubt that he's already planning to take little Henri out on the train."

"That's a man for you," Catherine put in. "Always looking for a playmate no matter what their age."

Carefully hanging the blouse, Mirielle grinned. Her collars and cuffs were starched and pressed, her lace had been laid on a towel and pinned down to dry, her three corset covers were drip drying over the tub, her boots had been polished, the ribbons from her hats rubbed clean and re-attached, her velvet jacket had been cleaned and brushed. She'd fetched the portmanteau she had arrived in Paris with from the landlord's cellar and had it sitting by the sofa airing out while she finished her preparations.

She wondered what Erik was up to.

* * *

Erik took stock of the items he'd chosen to bring on the trip. He and Mirielle were scheduled to leave in the morning. Once they arrived, there would be three days before his return. He counted socks and shirts and handkerchiefs one more time, deciding to add an extra set of everything in case they were delayed. He matched cravats with stick pins and cuff links for the shirts and made sure his starched collars were not being crushed by his portmanteau.

Going back through his living room, he took up his violin and rested it in its case. Along with rosin and his bow, he would see it taken to the railcar. Mirielle might like a bit of entertainment for the ride. He'd already sent ahead a few books and some stationary for the desk in the dinning area. Mirielle's choices for linens and dishes had been dropped off. A grocer would be delivering wine and food stuffs to the car that morning.

He had one last shopping trip to see to.

* * *

The early morning air hung heavy with damp. Mirielle hoped that someone had the chance to fire up the heat inside the railcar. At least there was gas for the stove and things to fix hot tea with until the car warmed up.

She watched the driver hand down her portmanteau to a porter at the edge of the station's drive. Giving directions to the porter, she followed along looking at the milling people on the platform. Some stood with smiles and others tears. She felt like smiling. She'd be with the girls again.

The porter stopped beside the foyer of the railcar. She tipped him after he secured her case and went to the opposite end where the ornate observation window faced the platform. Carefully lifting her skirt aside, she climbed aboard. Looking inside, there was a small lamp burning. Perhaps Erik hadn't arrived yet?

She stepped in and closed the door behind her. Making her way through the car she called, "Hello? Erik?" She unpinned her hat and sat it down on one of the chairs she passed. "Hello? Am I all alone?"

Goodness. Could it be that Erik was getting cold feet? She pulled off her gloves and headed for the back of the car where the little kitchen was. She fetched a copper kettle and started water boiling.

Going back to the dining room, she retrieved a pair of cups and saucers. A sound at the door made her look up. Erik stood in the doorway holding a large bouquet of roses that ranged from deepest crimson to a light blushing pink.

He came forward, removing his hat. Setting the hat upon the dining table, he cleared his throat. "I brought you something."

Mirielle smiled. A hand on her cheek, she knew she was blushing. "Thank you." She stepped towards him, hands outstretched for the flowers. "They are beautiful."

"They will never be as beautiful as you," he said softly.

There was a call outside the car. The conductor was announcing the departure of the train. There was a sudden movement and Erik caught hold of Mirielle by the waist. She clung to him, her arm around him.

"Mirielle," he began. "When I asked you to be my wife, I wasn't very well prepared."

Mirielle glimpsed a small velvet box in his hand. His clever fingers flipped it open revealing a beautiful blue colored stone set in gold. "Oh my…."

She held her hand forward as he took the ring from its pillow of dark velvet and slid it upon her finger. Hardly trusting her voice, she said, "Oh, Erik…it's beautiful."

His hand held hers. "I want you to look at it every day and know how beautiful you are. I hardly deserve the honor you bestow upon me."

She dropped her gaze. A tear splashed on her hand. "You silly man, you deserve so much more. It shall be my pleasure to remind you of that every day that I wear this ring." She offered her lips and her heart. His kiss was achingly soft. "Oh, Monsieur," she sighed. "We have hours before we reach Muizon. What ever shall we do?"

* * *

He lay across her body. Her small hand resting upon his neck, her breathing slow and steady. She turned her face, nose pressed against his masked cheek, lips feathering a kiss upon the silk.

The rhythm of the railcar rocked them. It would be much later before either one capitulated and left the other. Erik refused from that day forward to be separated from her. The wedding would be in two weeks.


	44. A Perfect Match

**A/N: As we approach our own Holidays and family gatherings, you can enjoy Erik's first. :) **

**Chapter Forty-two: A Perfect Match**

Pinning her hair up once again, Mirielle hummed along with the tune that Erik had sung as he left the water closet. Catching sight of her engagement ring, she looked wonderingly at the brilliant stone. She was a fortunate woman, finding a man who would treasure her. Her first marriage had been good, now her second one looked to be as promising.

Exiting the room, she proceeded to the observation end of the car. Erik sat looking over the Paris paper. "Can I get you anything, darling? A cup of coffee?"

"No."

"A cognac for your nerves?" She let the question trail into silence.

"Mmmm? No thank you."

She smirked. "A bit of hemlock or a sharp blade?"

He dropped the paper. "What did you just say?"

"I thought perhaps you needed something to steady your nerves. Or do yourself in with."

Erik's golden eyes blinked rapidly. "What ever for?" He shook out the paper. "I'm marrying you, remember?"

"Exactly." She took a seat opposite him, looking out the window at the bright sun. "I miss the country sometimes."

"Yes. I'd forgotten the fields of grapes, marching off over the hills. The sun's light seems softer here, more golden."

She scanned the horizon for houses that looked familiar. "We must be getting close."

Erik pulled out his watch. "We just pulled out of Reims. They should be unhitching the car where the track diverts by Muizon in half an hour."

Mirielle sat her chin in her hand and looked at her future husband. "Are we going to tell them you are the Opera Ghost?"

* * *

Hilaire took one last turn about her parlor. She bent to take up a cushion, but her sister picked it up first. Josette's spectacles flashed as she shook her head. "You've fluffed it up three times, Hil. It'll explode at the seams if you do it again."

Hilaire glanced at the men. Her husband Paul stood with little Henri tucked in the crook of his arm while Josette's husband Radégonde talked, waving a hand in the air. Looking back at her sister, who lounged on the sofa, she spoke up, "I'll just check the roast."

Josette leaped to her feet. "I'll come with you. I think I need some water."

Hilarie looked over the table as she passed. Each place was set with Mama's crystal and the dishes from Paul's parents. She straightened a chair as she walked by.

"It's perfect, Hilarie. Mama will be proud of you."

"Do you think so?"

Josette paused inside the kitchen door, really looking at her elder sister. "You'll do fine. You should worry more over what to say to Mama's fiancée rather than the place settings."

Hilaire took a glass down and filled it for Josette. "I just don't know what to say."

Josette stood with her mouth open. "You silly goose! How did you talk to Paul's parents? They were strangers to you. You did fine with them."

Hilaire shied away from Josette's piercing gaze. "It's not the same, Jo," she protested. "This man will be Henri's grandfather. What if I don't like him? None of us have met him."

"Dieu," Josette breathed. "Mama loves him, which is what is important." She took the glass and gave her sister a pat on the shoulder. "Be happy for her. You know how Mama likes to fuss over someone. If this fellow enjoys it, then they are a perfect match."

A knock sounded at the door as they re-entered the dining room. Hilaire shot a glance at her husband and smiled, hurrying to the door.

Erik gripped Mirielle's hand lightly. She walked unhurriedly along the paving stones that sat amidst the grass that led to the door of the cottage. Shade trees lined up at the far end of the house sheltering it from the neighbors on the other side. Composed of stone, its sandy color was set off by the strong red that the door and shutters were painted. One either side of the front stoop sat a pot for flowers. Under the shade of the eaves, clumps of melting snow huddled.

Steeling himself, he marched up to the door arm in arm with her. Tucking his chin down so the brim of his hat dipped over his mask, he rapped upon the door and stepped back beside Mirielle.

The door swung open to reveal a dark haired young woman. Erik took in her features. She was the image of her Mother with the progress of time erased.

"Hilaire," Mirielle said brightly. "You look wonderful." She wrapped the young woman in her arms and kissed her cheek.

"Mama," the girl replied happily. Her eyes shone as she looked at her mother.

"Motherhood must agree with you, dear." Mirielle reached back a hand to clasp Erik's. "This is Monsieur Vachon. Erik, this is my eldest daughter, Hilaire."

The younger woman's eyes were wide as she took in the mask. He nodded slowly. "How do you do."

She stepped back a pace. Erik noticed her fingers looked white as they grasped the door handle. "Won't you come in?" Her smiled seemed a touch brittle.

He stepped inside behind Mirielle who had rushed forward to accept a kiss from a young man. As she progressed to another young woman, one of the men stepped forward offering a hand. "Paul Crosnier, Monsieur. Welcome to our home."

"Monsieur, a pleasure." This would be Hilaire's husband. He had the sort of face that fit his employment as a shopkeeper. Unremarkable, but with a friendly gleam in his eye and an easy smile. Erik relaxed a trifle.

Mirielle pulled her other daughter over. The girl's features were different, as were her bespeckled eyes, but her dark hair matched her sister's. "This is Josette. Jo, this is Erik Vachon."

The girl's face lit up. She flung wide her arms and fairly leaped into Erik's, planting a kiss on the side of his mask. "Monsieur, I am so happy to meet you."

"Thank you, Josette." Erik smiled briefly. Someone else was coming over. Josette stepped back and continued the introductions. "This is my husband, Radégonde Tellier."

The young man was tall and of a similar build to Erik. His alert blue eyes scanned Erik's mask. He wore a frock coat that did not quite reach his wrists, a slash of green colored the skin. "Are you a painter?" Erik asked.

The room was suddenly quiet as all of Mirielle's family stopped talking to stare questioningly at him. Erik indicated the young man's wrist. "Emerald Green," Erik explained. "It is favored by the new Impressionist theory of painting. You must be careful," he added, "it contains arsenic."

"Yes, it is Emerald. Are you a painter?"

Erik shook his head. "No. I dabbled once, but my favored medium is stone."

Mirielle insinuated her arm through his. "He is quite an artist. But I believe he is more accomplished as a musician. That is how we met. We both enjoy the Opera."

Erik noted the older daughter stayed at the fringes of the group. She seemed to recover, for she stepped forwards. "May I take your hats and coats?"

Paul helped Mirielle out of her coat and stood ready to accept Erik's. Hilarie glanced back at the threshold. "Mama? Where are your bags?"

Mirielle smiled brightly. "Back at the railcar. We'll be staying there." Before her daughter could question her, she added, "Where is my grandson?"

Paul took hold of her elbow. "He's resisting his nap. Perhaps he knows his Grandmamma is coming to see him."

Erik followed a pace behind. Mirielle bent over a small cot that rested near a chair before the fireplace. When she said nothing, he thought the child had fallen asleep. Looking over her shoulder, he saw the boy. His small hand fisted near his face. His soft curls were a reddish color. With plump cheeks and a cupid's bow lips he looked a proper cherub.

"Don't let him fool you," Paul said quietly. "He can be louder than all of us put together."

Mirielle nodded. "Children are like that."

"His name is Henri."

Erik glanced at Hilarie who stood with her hands clasped before her. Her chin lifted. "He's named for my Father."

The first volley had been fired.

"Please, have a seat." Paul motioned a hand to the sofa and side chairs that waited. "Have you ever been to Muizon before, Erik?"

Better to start here, he thought. "I traveled extensively when I was younger. There were so many towns; I hardly remember all of them."

"You probably wouldn't remember it here then," Radégonde commented. "Muizon sits in Reims' shadow. I was born there, and hardly knew this place existed until I met Jo."

Josette sat on a chair next to her husband. "What sort of work did your Father do that kept you moving?"

Erik forced his body to relax. Taking a slow breath he told her, "I ran away from my home." The silence in the room was complete save the small popping from the fireplace. "My Father was killed shortly after I was born and my Mother was suffering under the strain of raising a precocious child that had been born deformed."

He forced his fingers to relax, then his arms. The tension in his shoulders began to drain as he looked at the shocked faces across from him.

Josette recovered first. "You had no other family?"

"None that would acknowledge me." He let them form their own opinions, this cluster of people whose lives intertwined.

"Erik has had quite a remarkable life," Mirielle added. "He's interested in architecture. We plan to tour Reims the day we leave."

That is, if he made it through today without horrifying his new family, or embarrassing his bride.

Paul, the practical one, asked, "With whom did you travel then?"

Erik surreptitiously slid a glance at Hilaire. She sat on the sofa next to her Mirielle whose soft smile encouraged him. "I was found by gypsies. We traveled the fairs until a substantial monetary offer was made for me to leave Russia and travel to Persia."

"This is fantastic," Radégonde exclaimed. "The things you must have seen."

"Yes," Erik replied. "As I matured I turned my energies to stage magic."

"He taught himself the violin as well," Mirielle put in.

"What do you do now?" Hilaire asked.

"I'm retired." _Parry, Riposte_.

"I brought the wine for dinner." Josette looked at her sister.

Hilaire got up quickly from the sofa. "We're having a roast. Is everyone hungry?" She looked inquiringly at her Mother who smiled serenely. Excusing herself, she fled for the kitchen.

As soon as she disappeared around the doorway, Paul and Josette turned to each other. "I'll go," he offered.

Radégonde leaned forward speaking in a low voice. "Hil is a little…overcome by your sudden engagement."

"That girl always did have her corsets laced too tightly," Mirielle sighed. "She's quite the little mother hen."

"Don't I know it," Josette murmured. She turned a pained look at Erik. "She's having a hard time understanding how Mama could fall in love so quickly again."

Mirielle made a choked sound. "For heaven sake, I'm going to be forty-two. Women don't seal themselves up in convents anymore." She smiled coyly at Erik.

"Thank the Divine for that," he mused. Thinking he might have committed a bit of a gaff, he looked at Josette and her husband. They sat clasping hands, sharing their own secrets together.

Mirielle gave his hand a squeeze. "I'll send Paul back out." Josette got up and followed her.


	45. A Warm Kitchen

**Chapter Forty-three: A Warm Kitchen**

Paul Crosnier uncorked the wine watching his wife bustle about the kitchen. He needn't ask her opinion of her Mother's suitor; it was etched in every movement she made. She came close. "He wears a mask."

"I saw."

"Paul," she spat. "What if he's some sort of criminal?"

"He said it was a deformity, or were you not listening?"

Hilaire gaped at her husband. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean you aren't even giving the man a chance." He carried the wine bottle towards the dinning room. "I'll fill the wine glasses," he offered.

Mirielle and Josette entered and began gathering up the serving dishes, ferrying them to the table. "Mmm. This smells wonderful, Hilaire," Jo said.

"Do you need Paul to carve the roast?" Mirielle asked.

"No. I'll do it."

Mirielle lifted a bowl. "I can't find a spoon."

Hilaire pointed to a drawer across the kitchen. "The other ones are over there."

Erik watched the steady flow in and out of the kitchen door. When Hilaire stepped out with the tray bearing the beef, he and Radégonde got to their feet and moved towards the table. Erik pulled out a chair for Mirielle and waited until all the ladies were seated before taking his next to her.

They were in the country now. All the courses were served together. He received dishes as they were passed around the table. The young woman had outdone herself. There was Terrine Rustique, a pate made of meats, spiced with nutmeg, thyme, bay leaves and cognac served on crusty slices of bread. Petite crepes with two kinds of cheeses, and several dishes of vegetables accompanied the beef.

Paul lifted his wine glass. "To the happy couple."

The glasses clinked together in a toast. Erik savored the taste of the wine.

"This is lovely," Mirielle said. "Is it local?"

"But of course," Radégonde replied. "One never runs out of wine in Reims. You just have to pop on a smock and pick grapes."

"Reims is the heart of Champaign country," Paul told Erik.

"Mirielle had mentioned that. I believe she wants to tour one of the local cellars."

Hilaire glanced at her Mother. "Are you looking to buy champagne to take back?"

"Yes. We'd like it for the wedding."

"You've decided on a date?" Hilarie lifted a napkin to her lips. Erik wondered what expression she hoped to cover.

"Two weeks. We marry on the sixth at La Madeline in Paris." He felt Mirielle slide her hand to his knee under the table.

"We'd like you all to attend," Erik added. "We are, of course, aware that it will be quite a trip for you, so I will be putting the railcar at your disposal and covering your hotel accommodations."

"Railcar?" Josette's voice mirrored her stunned look.

"Yes," Mirielle smiled. "The one Erik and I came up on. We'll have to have you come by and see it."

Josette looked at her husband. "How romantic."

"Henri has a routine," Hilaire began.

Paul glanced sharply at his wife. "That's the beauty of the car, Hil. We can even take his cot with us, so he won't be disturbed by a different bed."

Mirielle stifle the urge to kick her daughter under the table. "I used to take you to the store and put you in a crate for a nap when you were a baby."

"This is a wonderful dinner, Hilarie." Erik attempted to divert the conversation. If he'd learned nothing in his brief time with Mirielle, he understood what her stiffening posture hinted at.

Someone asked for the potatoes, and several hands reached for the bowl. Hilarie chewed on her roast while the others talked almost incessantly.

When everyone finally sat back, Hilarie got to her feet. "Why don't we withdraw to the parlor? I'll start the coffee." She lifted a dish and headed towards the kitchen. Josette and Mirielle popped up, picking up dishes as well.

Paul waited till the women rounded the corner into the kitchen. "Girl talk," he said softly. He re-filled the wine glasses and led Erik and Radégonde to the parlor.

* * *

Mirielle scraped potatoes from a dish. "What do you think of him?"

Hilaire covered the remaining terrine. "Mama, I'm not sure. The two of you met just a few months ago."

"Yes. You know, it does feel like I've known him much longer than that."

"I'm just surprised at how quickly the two of you decided to commit to one another."

"Hilaire, I'm going to be 42 this year. It isn't like a waiting period is called for anymore."

"I thought," she paused, "that you loved Papa."

Mirielle took hold of her daughter. "I did. I still do. But he's gone now. If I had died I wouldn't want him sitting around with a dark armband on and moping about his wife. I'd want him to find love again."

"It just seems too quick."

"Oh, it wasn't. It's just that neither one of us needs to wait any longer. You grow more honest as you grow older."

"In what way?"

"Well, sex for one thing."

"Mama!"

Josette perked up, wiping the dish she held faster.

"Oh come on, Hilaire. You don't think your father and I thought you and Paul were really out on walks all those summer evenings do you?"

She blushed from her neck to her hairline.

"I lost my virginity at 14. I married your father at 17 and had you when I was 17 and a half." She waved a hand towards the bedroom above them. "You know exactly what happens between men and women. Erik and I just did without that entire pretense."

"He seduced you." Hilaire stood straight. Mirielle recognized the almost righteous lift of her daughter's chin.

"No, exactly the opposite. I flirted with him and leaped at the chance to climb into his bed."

"Mama!"

Mirielle snorted. "Don't be a fuddy-duddy, Hil. After you spend years hurriedly pushing your gown out of the way and having Paul climb on top of you, you'll appreciate having your children grown and your bed to yourself."

"Oo, la la!" Josette crowed.

"Shut up, Jo," Hilaire snapped.

"Why should she?" Mirielle objected. "She's young and in love. Let them make love as often as they wish." She added in a tired voice, "Your father was limited by the strokes. I mourned the loss of my husband as well as my lover when he died."

"Oh, God."

Josette laughed. "You're blushing, Hil."

Hilaire turned an incredulous look on her sister. "She's talking about…you know. With Papa!"

Mirielle grimaced. "How else do you think you two got here? Immaculate conception?" she teased. "Seriously, after years of quick f…"

Hilaire covered her Mother's mouth with the dishtowel. "Mother!"

Josette stared with her mouth agape. "I didn't even know she knew that word."

Mirielle pushed the towel away. "When your husband says forget the dishes and the ironing and come sit with him, do it. Life is too short to not take the time to be intimate with the man you love.

"Make the time to be happy, and silly, and romantic. For in a few moments that all might be taken from you."

They stood in the kitchen, three women who had lived as wives and lovers. Hilarie wiped a spoon and dropped it in a drawer. "Mama, I'm just not comfortable with this."

The mature young woman who stood before her still had the stubborn streak she inherited from her Father. "I know, child," Mirielle replied. "Talk to him. If I can love him, you'll find something about him to love as well."

"I'll try."

"Thank you, Hilarie." Mirielle sat her hands on her hips. "At the very least you will be respectful. That man deserves it." She turned on her heel and left her daughters to talk.

* * *

Erik sat chatting to Paul about the store when they heard the first exclamation from the kitchen. A dish clattered and in another minute, they heard Hilaire's indignant voice.

Radégonde grinned. "I can't wait to hear what Mirielle said."

Paul turned a speculative look at Erik. "You're going to marry her. You must know how plain spoken she can be."

Erik couldn't help but smile. "She's an honest woman. And a very loving one."

There was a noise from the cot. Erik's attention was arrested by the sound. Paul got up and bent over the small bed. "Who is awake? You were a good boy to let Mama have dinner." He lifted his son from the cot. The child's small head rested on his Father's shoulder.

Erik watched the younger man meander through the room, stroking his son's back. A pang shot through him. His father had never done that for him. He'd never even been allowed to see the child he sired.

Mirielle entered. "Let me take him," she offered.

"Thank you, Mirielle," Paul said.

She took the baby and the cloth, laying it over her shoulder. "Hello, darling boy." She kissed his chubby cheek. "Oh, your cheek is warm. Is he getting a tooth?"

"It could be," Paul replied. "I'll go get a cloth and some cold water."

She sat on the chair next to Erik. "Henri turned a year old last September."

The child looked up at his Grandmother's face. She pushed his curls away from his ears. His small hand opened, reaching for her hair. "Mmm—mum."

"Yes, Grandmama," she crooned. "I wish your Grandpapa could have lived to see you."

Erik heard the sadness in her voice. She'd never talked much about her husband. Only that he had died of a stroke. He'd never prodded her to talk more about the man. Looking at the innocent beauty of the child's face, his own heart felt heavy for the man who died before he could see his grandson.

Mirielle let the child touch a curl of her hair. His small fingers opened and closed, as his eyes focused on her tresses. Erik sat, fascinated with the intensity on the child's face.

"You will have another Grandpapa to spoil you," Mirielle spoke. The boy's eyes looked into hers. "Grandpapa," she repeated.

As if he understood, the child's eyes swung to Erik's. His little fingers hovered in the air. "Oooo." The hand moved towards Erik's face.

Determined to not move, he watched the hand advance. He could intercept it if he chose, but would rather the child learn that the mask was a part of him.

Mirielle's grasped the boy's hand. "No," she said softly.

His attention swung back to her. He shook his head from side to side. "No."

"You are such a good boy."

Hilaire stood in the kitchen door watching her son and the masked man.


	46. Questions

**A/N: Thanks reviewers! Despite Turkey day and Christmas preperations, some of you must still be readig! Enjoy. **

**Chapter Forty-four: Questions**

Josette filled the cream pitcher. "I don't understand why this is so hard for you. Mama needs someone."

Hilaire set out the sugar bowl and the tongs for the little cubes. "Didn't you look at it?"

Josette's eyes sparkled. "It's beautiful. What is it? A sapphire?"

Hilaire looked at her sister with disbelieving eyes. "Not the ring," she whispered, casting a glance in the direction of the parlor. "The mask."

Josette took in the morose look on her sister's face. She snatched a plate from the sideboard. "What's wrong with it?" she asked primly.

"You don't think it's odd?" Hilaire replied testily. "He might be a criminal."

Josette rolled her eyes. "I doubt he's come all this way to murder Mama in the bath. _Dieu_, Hil. You are always willing to see the worst in things aren't you?"

Hilaire took down the large silver-plated tray. Her face reflected on its polished surface. "I never thought I'd be serving coffee to my Mother's future husband." Her face looked distorted by the curved edge. She sat the tray down on her kitchen counter. "It's his eyes."

Josette caught her lip between her teeth and glanced at the door to the dining room. "They are like pale gold. How is that possible?"

"Do you feel strange when he looks at you?"

She shook her head quickly. "No. I feel—I feel as if he wishes for me to be happy."

Hilaire reached to place a small plate of truffles on the tray when she noticed her reflection, looming along the edge. Distorted, she hardly looked human. Was what she saw in his eyes, a reflection of how she felt towards him? It made her step away from the table, her reflection doggedly following her.

She untied her apron and hung it upon a peg by the door. Josette was pouring the coffee into a porcelain pot. "Come on; let's get everyone their coffee so we can relax."

Josette flashed her a smile, and followed her out of the kitchen.

* * *

There were wine glasses and cups and saucers sitting around the room. More than once, Josette had to point out to her husband that he was about to elbow his off the arm of the chair he sat in. Hilaire suppressed a grin. Radégonde was so scatter-brained she wondered how he ever painted as well as he did without smearing his paints or poking himself in the eye with his brush.

Mirielle finally relinquished her possession of little Henri to Paul. Her fiancé sat quietly listening to the flow of conversation. Hilaire watched them together. He was attentive, always offering her Mother help. Would she like a truffle? Did she need more cream? He brushed her back once when she sat forward. She didn't doubt he would have sprung to his feet and assisted her out of the chair.

And his eyes. They focused almost relentlessly upon the person addressing him. He offered all of his attention. His questions were polite. He'd even sat through one of Radé's tirades about the present government. No one seemed uneasy with him.

Mirielle got up and headed in the direction of the water closet. Hilaire caught the faintest glimpse of longing in the man's eyes. Like a dog watching its master leave. The thought of him sitting forlornly outside the door waiting for her Mother was almost amusing.

Henri started to fuss. "Here, I'll take him." She leaned towards Paul, accepting her squirming son. She carried him upstairs, talking to him as she changed his diaper and got him settled down.

She paused on her way down the stairs. On top of the wardrobe in Henri's room rested the case where her Father's violin was kept. She put Henri back down on his cot and reached up for the case. It was layered in a fine coat of dust that she brushed off. Flipping the latches off and opening the case, a musty smell filled her nostrils. "Oh no." Picking up her son, she went back downstairs.

As she alit from the stairs, she saw her Mother had joined Josette in cleaning up the dishes. She handed Henri to Paul. Turning to M. Vachon, she held up the case. "Mama gave this to me. We were hoping Henri might be interested in it someday."

He stood and followed her to the dining room table. She flipped open the clips on the case. She stepped back.

He lifted the violin in both hands, looking down the length of the strings. Setting it upon the table, he took up the bow. "You must store this with the strings slack." He held it up before the light. "See how the tension warps the bow? We refer to that as 'sprung'."

Hilaire gaped at the curved spine, feeling terrible. "I didn't know."

"No harm done," he replied easily. "A bow can be straightened." He laid it down and picked up the instrument again. Flipping it over, he ran a finger down its back. "It is in good condition, but you should make sure to clean this rosin dust from it. It will damage the finish over time." He flipped it over, pointing to a name. "This is the maker; it looks to be a German instrument." He plucked a few of the strings, turning his golden eyes to her. "A little care is all it needs. It will outlive all of us if you take it to a luthier and get it cleaned."

She shot a glance at Paul. "I think there is one in Reims. Is it expensive?"

"No. Not if you are going to put it away for a while. If it is to be used, some tuning and some dope on the pegs will keep it in good order." He put it down and picked up the bow. Grasping the end he adjusted the tension on the horse hair strings.

He swung the instrument up, tucking it under his chin. With quick, sharp movements he ran the bow fleetingly over the strings. "Kreutzer Etudes No. 2. It teaches the Sautillé method of the bow." He switched to a slow up and down movement. "Detaché." He then began bouncing the bow off of the strings. "Ricochét." He finally settled into a staid cadence where the bow moved in a downward stroke and paused. "Martellé."

Hilaire felt herself staring. "Papa was mostly a fiddler," she offered.

He turned smiling eyes at her. At the edge of his mask his teeth flashed white. "We all start that way." He launched into the notes of a quadrille, wincing apologetically when a note sounded scratchy.

She glanced at Henri who sat sucking on a finger. "How ever will he learn?"

"You practice with shadows," the man replied. "I picked up the violin after watching a man play at the fairs."

"Fairs?" "I traveled with a group of Gypsies. The old man played in the tent, and I'd ape his movements in my…." He stopped abruptly. "In the dark."

"Do you play now?"

"Only for my own amusement." He laid the instrument back in its case.

"Would you help Henri? That is, if he wants to learn?"

"I would be honored."

She realized his eyes were a warm, tawny color.

* * *

Josette sidled up to Mirielle. "Can I see?"

Mirielle smile and held out her hand. "I just love it, Jo. It's delicate and, well, it was totally unexpected."

"Is it a sapphire?"

"Erik said it was a blue diamond from Persia."

She glanced at the door. "Has he been married before?"

"He's had no one. The mask has ruled his life."

Josette's heart went out to the man. "He will have us." She smiled at her Mother. "Have you seen…?"

"No. When he is ready, then I will see. Until then, I can tell you his soul is in his eyes and his voice. I don't care that he has no nose." She gave a short laugh. "None of us stay pretty forever."

Josette kissed her Mother's cheek. "Be happy, Mama."

"Thank you, Josette."


	47. Henri Montalais

**A/N: Thanks again for the great reviews!**

**Chapter Forty-five: Henri Montalais**

The afternoon sun dipped low in the windows of the parlor. The conversation drifted from family to occupants of the village that Paul and Hilaire served from the store. Radégonde talked about a gallery he hoped to sell a painting through, and Josette sat dangling her necklace before a fascinated little Henri.

More than once, Erik felt his attention slip back to the child. Had he ever been that small? Even though the child was young, he seemed to have a good grasp of quite a few words. Henri's small fingers captured the locket. He blew bubbles from his lips, flexing his toes and turning the locket in his fingers.

The mantel clock struck, and Mirielle turned to him. "We should go back to the car before it gets dark." Erik stood, assisting her to her feet while Paul went to fetch their coats.

"We'll see you tomorrow?" Josette hugged her Mother. She stepped up to Erik, lifting a hand to his shoulder. He leaned forwards, accepting her kiss upon his masked cheek. "I'm glad you came," she said softly.

"Thank you, Josette."

Radégonde came next, giving Mirielle a fierce hug. "It's so good to see you, Mirielle." He stepped up to Erik, offering a hand. "Congratulations."

Hilaire looked distressed. "Would you like to take some of the food with you? There is plenty left over."

Mirielle turned a quizzical glance at Erik. He replied, "We can have some for lunch tomorrow. Bring it with you to the railcar when you are ready. We can talk there." He paused, looking at Henri. "That way you can plan your accommodations when you come to the wedding."

Mirielle smiled. _ Clever man, as always. Now Hilaire has no excuse. _She reached out to Paul, kissing his cheek. "It's so good to see you again." She turned and hugged her daughter. "Everything was splendid, Hilaire." She placed a kiss upon Herni's plump cheek. "Grandmamma loves you, darling."

Erik helped her on with her coat. Paul offered his hand, and Erik gave him his. "A pleasure, Paul." He glanced at Hilaire as she stood holding Henri. Suffering a bout of awkwardness, he touched Henri's hand with a finger. "Pleased to meet you."

"Thank you for coming," Hilaire said with a small smile.

"Thank you, Hilaire." Erik slid on his hat and turned from her. He stopped on the stoop, taking Mirielle's arm. With a backward wave, they started down the stone path. They turned at the end onto the road, and Erik took in a deep breath of the chill air.

"You were wonderful," Mirielle said, smiling.

He gripped her hand, "That's the longest I've been in the presence of other people in nearly a decade." He glanced at her. "At least, that they knew it."

"I knew Hilaire would be the difficult one." Mirielle glanced back at the house. "To be a fly on the wall for that conversation."

"We could hide under one of the windows and listen," he whispered teasingly.

Her laughter was a bright trill in the cool air, her breath streaming. "Come on," Erik prompted. "Let's go home before you get chill."

Walking with her, he felt the tension in his shoulders and back begin to release. It hadn't been that awful sitting with her family. They'd been polite and hadn't asked a lot of questions. Looking back, his comment about his family had been the one that stunned them. In their little house, love warmed the group more than the fire did. It was one of the things that Erik had enjoyed basking in. "Paul was telling me about the store."

She glanced at his face. "What about it?"

"He said you signed it over to them."

"Yes."

"Did you give something to Josette when you left?"

"Of course. I purchased their house for them."

He pulled her to a stop. "You impoverished yourself, Mirielle. You live with roommates in that apartment you share when you could have been comfortable here with your family."

"It was the only thing I could do for them to help them start their lives. If I'd stayed, I wouldn't have met you would I?"

He shook his head slowly. "I hope they know what a wonderful mother they have."

She shot him a speculative glance. A teasing look that made his heart race.

Taking a quick look back up the road, he let his hand wander down to her backside. "I know how lucky I am."

"How lucky we are." They walked on for a few minutes before she spoke again. "The girls and I will take a walk tomorrow. We want to visit Herni's grave."

Erik cocked his head. "You haven't told me much about him."

"No. I didn't think you wanted to know anything."

"It's all right, Mirielle. I am not offended if you speak about him. He was your husband for how many years?"

"Twenty. After he died Paul and I went over all of the finances. I couldn't keep the store for myself. It's the sort of work for the young, and Paul had been hired after Henri had his first stroke."

"How did it happened?"

"Henri said one day he thought he needed new glasses. I didn't think anything of it. I found out through people stopping at the door that the Doctor told him the reason one eye was suddenly different had to be a stroke." She paused a moment. "He didn't tell me. We always talked, but suddenly this man I had spent my life with wasn't sharing things."

"He didn't want you to worry, I suppose."

"No. But I did start to when I noticed his speech changed. His words were slower. By then, Paul had been with us for three months. I wonder now if Henri suspected the stroke would return. He'd never entertained the idea of an assistant in the store before. After that, the next stroke hit him harder. He lost control of his left hand, and his leg gave him trouble. By then, Paul and I insisted he see the Doctor. The man told us that there would be more strokes right up until the end."

Erik listened to the dread of the inevitable color her voice. "I'm sorry."

Her hand squeezed his. "After that stroke, Paul and Hilaire took over the store. He'd started walking her home in the evenings. We all badgered Henri to stay home for a while, to take it easy. It turned out to be the worst thing I could have done."

"Why ever would that be a bad thing?"

"He grew quarrelsome. Sometimes he would get outright rude to me in front of the girls. We fought over everything. If I made chicken for dinner, he wanted pork. If I lit a fire, he was too hot."

"Was that change in his behavior because of the stroke?"

"No. Paul told me maybe Henri was acting that way because he felt he was losing control over his life. His independence, his business, every simple choice was slipping away as well as his ability to control his body."

Erik nodded in understanding. "That's why you said you'd stay with me till the end the night you saw the coffin."

"Yes," she admitted. "I meant it as well. I'd stay to the very end with you."

He looked down at her hand, his own fingers touching the ring he had placed there. "I don't ever want to be separated from you. Not ever. Not even for one night. Be with me."

"Even the night before our wedding?"

"Even then," he protested. "We shall do something, I don't know, hang up a blanket between us for the sake of customs," he looked into her eyes. "I don't want to ever be without you. So help me God, if you die first, I shall demand of Saint Peter that the gates of heaven be held open, for I shall be right behind you."

She smiled, but her eyes shimmered with tears. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

Hilaire stood at the door until Erik and Mirielle started down the lane. When she turned to close the door, Josette, Radégonde, and Paul all stood watching her. "What?"

"You aren't going to give Mama trouble are you?" Josette asked.

"I was shocked," she retorted. "Weren't you?" She looked at Paul. His calm, quiet strength was one of the reasons she'd fallen in love with him.

"It isn't everyday you see a man wearing a mask," he said quietly. "Or a woman of your intelligence scurrying to hide in the kitchen rather than talk to your Mother's fiancée."

Angered, she crossed her arms across her chest. "I didn't hide. I had a dinner to prepare."

"You barely spoke to him, Hil," Josette protested.

What had she said to him? The afternoon was such a blur, she hardly remembered. "I'm not sure what I was prepared for, but a faceless man wasn't it."

"He has a face," Radégonde said solemly. "He has a face and a name. Your Mother has seen that. You should take the time to really look at him."

"They were perfect together," Paul added. "The man was attentive, and Mirielle was basking in it every moment."

Hilaire nodded. "I did notice how he looked like a lost dog when she left the room. And yes, they seemed to get on well. But who is this man?"

Josette shrugged. "Who cares. He's going to be our Mother's husband. I did ask her in the kitchen if she had ever seen his face. She said not yet."

"There," Hilaire said. "Isn't that suspicious?"

Radégonde spoke. "I think I know why."

* * *

They reached the railcar as the sun was on the horizon. Erik locked the door and Mirielle went along the windows, loosening the drapes and pulling them closed. In the soft light of the sconces they sat drinking hot tea and talking until Mirielle yawned.

"To bed," Erik insisted. "We are having visitors tomorrow."

He let her have the water closet first. She came out, slipping off her robe and laying it over the foot of the bed. He let his gaze roam appreciatively over her lush backside. One look at Mirielle dressed in the soft satiny fall of her gown was more than worth an afternoon of polite conversation with people he'd never met. All in all, the day had gone better than he had expected. Even Hilarie's reticence had thawed a bit as the day wore on.

Erik came to bed with a book. Sliding in between the sheets he leaned over to Mirielle and placed a kiss upon her shoulder and one on her cheek. She grinned at him, sliding her foot to rest against his leg as he opened his book.

She fell asleep with her book fluttering closed. Erik took the book and put it down on the small table attached to the wall on his side of the bed. Turning down the sconces, he settled down near Mirielle and went swiftly to sleep.


	48. A Face To A Name

**A/N: Thanks reviewers! **

**Chapter Forty-six: A Face To A Name**

Hilaire took up the lace tablecloth; Josette had moved the candle holders. Spreading a sheet of paper before him, Radégonde Tellier sat down with a stub of a pencil in his hand. Eyes fixed upon the paper, his hand moved over the surface.

Paul stood to one side, staying clear of the other man's elbow as he worked. Lines appeared in smooth arcs. Hilaire took up a chair and sat watching Radégonde draw. She always felt it was a privilege to see how something emerged from the rough lines and scribbles over the surface.

After a few minutes and a pause to study his work, he looked up. "You understand this is not an exact likeness?" He grasped the edge of the paper and turned it towards Hilaire.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the gaping dark hole in the man's face. A wave of chills crept up her arms.

His eyes were beautiful, if she could stop allowing hers to be dragged back to the empty, triangular spot. Above the hole was a snubbed ridge. His eyes looked remarkably deep in his face. Radégonde had added lines at the corners of the eyes consistent with the ones around his lips.

He would have had the sort of face one saw everyday. Perhaps the cheekbones looked so prominent because there was no nose to interrupt the planes. "My God." She swallowed, searching for a way to relieve the sudden tightness in her throat. "How could that happen?"

"He would have to be born like this."

Paul came to her side. She searched for his hand, looking up at her husband. "Henri could have been born like that." She looked back at the drawing through a mist that filled her eyes. "He ran away. What sort of a woman would not love her son?"

Radégonde allowed the pencil to slip from his grasp. "I did a lot of medical illustrations while I was at the Academy. We used to do it for practice and easy money. You would be surprised at the number of children born with cleft palates and other deformities. A lot of them were left behind by their families. Some don't survive very long."

"Maybe she thought he might die," Josette murmured. "Or maybe she just blamed him for her own failings."

"But you saw him, Jo," Hilaire retorted, disbelief coloring her voice. "He's every inch a gentleman, and the way he sat with Mama…." She looked again at the drawing. It was Erik. His intense eyes looked back at her from the paper. The eyes of a lion; majestic but unapproachable. "I wonder if it hurts?"

"He would be susceptible to breathing infections. I'd think cold air might give him a headache as well. The nose warms up the air we take it so it doesn't shock the lungs."

Touching a corner she turned it away. "We must never speak of this to him."

"No," Josette agreed. "This is just between us."

Radégonde lifted the paper and handed it to Paul who took it to the fireplace. Folding it once as he squatted, tossing it on top of the burning embers. Hilaire sat with a hand on her stomach, resting her chin in the other. "That explains more than that odd mask."

The house was silent except for the crackle of the fireplace.

* * *

Pulling on the strap, the mask slithered down over his cheekbone. A tell-tale red coloring the size or a fingertip appeared on his skin. Touching it lightly, it already held a raw sensation. He prepared a cold wash rag and held it against the bone. He should let the skin breath over night.

Mirielle was just drawing up the coverlet upon the bed. Erik came into the room and stopped.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," he murmured. He could leave the mask off when she was in the bath. That would have to do for now.

"Erik," she challenged. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Why should anything be wrong?" he asked lightly.

She sat on the bed. "Are you worried because the children are coming?"

"No," he waved her question aside. "Although, I find it hard to refer to them as my children."

She grinned, one of the lopsided little ones that brought a small dimple near the corner of her mouth. "Wait till you're around them for a while. They are adults, but young. There are hundreds of things they have yet to learn about life." She leaned back on one arm. "Now stop skirting the subject and tell me what is bothering you."

Erik suddenly felt the need to fidget. How was it women _knew_ things? "It's nothing."

"No, it isn't," she admonished.

He had been the one to insist she stay with him. Together they would grow closer one to the other. It wouldn't take Mirielle's practical mind to put together what he was avoiding. The raised a hand to his cheek. "I found a rubbed spot this morning."

"Erik, if you need the mask off, take it off."

It sounded so simple. Looking at her he still felt the old dread inching up his spine to sink claws into him, refusing to set him free.

"If you need to have your mask off simply tell me. We'll," she paused and waved a hand at the bed. "We'll go to bed tonight and you can leave it off. It will be dark in the room, and I promise I'll wake you if I need to get up."

"It's not worth the fuss," he murmured. "It will probably clear up by the afternoon." He searched his pockets for something to occupy his fingers.

"Be that as it may, if it is still bothering you this evening, we shall retire early and you can go to bed without it. Do you have anything you can put on it for the day?"

"Yes, I have a cream I use."

"Good." She smiled at him, getting to her feet. She placed a kiss upon his chin. "You are a grown man, but you really should listen to your fiancée. I only have your best interests at heart." She stepped towards the stateroom door. "Besides, I don't want you to be irritable." She waltzed out in a stately swish of skirt.

"Don't you mean _irritated_?" he asked following her into the dining area.

"Mmmm? I don't want you to be that either, darling."

Erik watched her gathering up some yarn and her knitting needles. Whatever it was she was doing, she'd brought with her. "What is that?"

"It's a sweater for Henri. Now that I've seen him, I can predict how big I shall need to make it."

Erik sat in a chair across from her, enjoying the sunlight through the window. She sat looping the yarn around her fingers, and sliding it along the needles. Her fingers worked in a nimble rhythm till she reached the end where she paused to count something. "Won't Hilaire already have sweaters for him?"

Mirielle glanced up in surprise. "It's obvious you've never been around children. They have the most amazing timing. Once they are perfectly dressed, they soil their clothing. Perhaps it's food, or a bit of spittle, or …."

"I understand," he put in quickly before she could come up with any other bodily fluids.

"When they get older its dirt or a tear. You can never have enough clothing for a little one."

Her hands worked quickly as she spoke. To Erik it looked like a bizarre version of one-handed cat's cradle. "Will you be done with it before we leave?"

"I doubt it. But when they come up for the wedding it shall be done."

Watching her work, he was reminded of learning the finger work for the violin. How many hours had he sat staring out of his cage at the shadows, the fingers of his left hand clenching around the imaginary neck of the instrument. After a time he would stand and copy the bow work.

He was nothing more than an animal to the gypsies until the old man took to his bed from consumption. Being of no import except a freak to display, they had let him out of the cage to ferry things back and forth to the old man's wagon. One night, he sat waiting for his keeper, and lifted the violin. His first attempts emitted scratchy sounds, but her experimented and quickly found the pressure needed on the strings. His hands moved deftly from all the hours of watching. When the tribe heard it, they agreed to add it to the entertainment.

He watched Mirielle's fingers. "You enjoy doing that?"

She smiled. "I enjoy keeping busy and helping my children." Her smile grew teasing. "You know Mirielle gets quite naughty when she's left to her own devices."

He chuckled. "Don't accuse the kettle of being black on my account." He lifted a hand. "Guilty as well. Ask Nadir. He's been my keeper for a number of years."

He arose and went to get his violin. Lifting it from the case he went back to his chair. "Any requests, my dear?"

"Hmmm. Something bright and happy."

Yes, he thought, you are. A beacon of hope for a man facing the bitter winter of his life. He lifted the instrument and began a Russian folk song he remembered but never knew the origins of.

* * *

Hilaire closed the door to the house and hurried up the path behind Paul. He and Radégonde carried the baskets filled with the leavings of the meal. "Do you think Mama will have bread?"

"She will," Jo answered. "She's probably made coffee by now as well."

Hilaire stopped. "Paul, did you bank the fire in the…."

"Yes, Hil. We did that first."

"All right." She looked back at the house. "I hope I didn't forget anything."

Josette made a face. "We'll be fine. I can't wait to see the railcar. Can you believe it? He must have money," she added in a low voice.

They walked the streets of Muizon towards the train station. It sat facing the openings of the streets in the village. As they came up to the platform, across the tracks sat the long, dark shape of the car. At the end nearest them was an elaborately decorated iron railing at the stairs. Radégonde helped Josette up the stairs, and then offered Hilaire a hand.

The door they faced was glass and hung inside with thick dark curtains. Jo tapped lightly, seeing her Mother sitting in a chair with her knitting needles.

Erik saw them walking across the tracks to the car. He sat his violin down and dusted a bit of rosin off his cuff. Taking a deep breath, he turned with a faint smiled and strode to the door. He turned the handle and stepped back. "Come in."

Josette stood grinning, Hilaire gaping, Radégonde ran a hand over the metalwork on the railing, and Paul stood holding a bundled up Henri and a basket.

Erik offered a hand to Josette, "Come in, my dear."

Josette pushed passed Hilaire, kissed the air next to Erik's mask and hurried to her Mother. Radégonde stepped towards the door and gave Hilaire a nudge. Erik nodded to her.

"How—how did you get a railcar?" she stammered.

"I purchased it," Erik told her. He glanced back at Paul. "Let me have that basket."

Outside the door, the noon train pulled into the station in a steam cloud and squealing brakes. Henri's little face screwed up, looking to his Father in panic. "It's all right. It's the train. The noise will go away."

Erik watched the emotions play on the child's face. He seemed to perpetually be examining everything around him.

"There's my darling boy," Mirielle cooed.

Herni turned in the direction of her voice. "Mamama?"

"Yes, Grandmamma." She took his little chubby fingers in hers and kissed his fist. "Are you hungry? Let's show Mama where the dishes are."

"I'll take care of that, Mirielle," Erik offered.

"Good," she chirped stepping close to him. She lifted Henri from Paul's arms and promptly pushed him in the direction of Erik's.


	49. Bereft

**A/N: Greetings readers and reviewers. Happy Holidays to all.**

**You can visit my profile to get a link to the address of the rail car I used for Erik and Mirielle... **

**Chapter Forty-seven: Bereft**

Erik stepped back with Mirielle following him. "Yes," she said brightly. "Sit down why don't you?'

He felt the backs of his legs hit a chair. "I—"

"Sit, Erik. Henri can sit with you."

He raised his hands to protest, but the little bundle was looming closer. Mirielle's radiant smile seemed too bright, the air in the car suddenly heated. And then a slight weight rested on his arm. A small hand lifted towards his cravat.

Henri's eyes focused on his, so large and innocent. "Brrr?" His little cupid's bow mouth pursed. "Eedah?"

"Grandpapa," Mirielle said softly. Herni looked up at her, his mouth a surprised 'o'.

Erik felt his own mouth working. "Oh."

"Oooo," Henri replied. He reached up a hand and pulled at the little cap on his head, pulling it askew.

Erik caught one ribbon's end and pulled it from his head. Henri's fine hair stood up from the static. He ran his fingers over it to smooth it in place.

The child's hair was incredibly soft. He sat looking around in the direction of voices as Erik's fingers dropped from his head. Herni's fingers plucked at the ribbon from the cap. He lifted an end of it and popped it in his mouth.

Erik watched the child's jaw work. He looked up for Mirielle. Paul was no where in sight, but Radégonde had taken a seat across the car from him. "Is he hungry?"

"No. He just ate. I think his teeth are bothering him. Here," he said getting to his feet. He retrieved a cloth and gave it to Erik. "He'll drool quit a bit. You might want to drape that between him and your cravat.

Erik glanced at the cloth. At this moment Henri was busily sucking at the ribbon. Erik mentally measured the length; giving it a tug to be sure the child couldn't get enough in his mouth that he might choke. Henri glanced up at him again. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Henri made humming sounds, and Erik felt the child's feet moving on his lap.

"Here, Herni."

Josette stood by Erik's knee holding what looked like a piece of the crepes her sister had served the day before.

Henri reached greedily for the crepe. Erik swept the ribbon from the child's mouth before he could stuff the crepe inside with it.

"He likes the cold. It makes his gums feel better." Josette reached for the cloth Radégonde had given Erik and tucked it under Herni's chin. "Num, num. Isn't that good? Mama is such a good cook." She disappeared before Erik could say anything to her.

Radégonde had picked up the newspaper and everyone else bustled in and out of the end of the car where the dining table sat. Erik scooted down in his chair and turned his attention back to the child.

Hilaire brought a plate of sliced cheeses to the table, seeing her son on Erik's lap.

"You have your Grandfather's name," he said softly. "You already have large shoes to fill."

She went to the chair. "Can I get you anything?"

Erik looked up, eyes wide. "Uh…."

Hilaire waited as he seemed a little perplexed. "I'll send Mama out." She turned and headed back to the small galley kitchen where Josette stood in the hallway talking to their Mother.

Hilaire stopped by the door. "He has the most startled look."

"Who, dear?"

"Your fiancé, Mama. As if you didn't know," she pressed.

"He'll be fine," she replied with a smile.

"Mother," Hil teased. "You should get married _before_ you try to give him a heart attack."

"He should be getting used to it by now," Mirielle replied airily.

"What?"

"He was a little nervous coming to meet you. We can talk about it on the walk to the graveyard."

"He was nervous?"

"Erik hasn't been very close to people, Hil. He has a close friend, a Persian fellow named Nadir. But mostly he's just kept to himself."

"His um…." She raised a hand towards her face.

"Yes," Mirielle sighed. "He has quite a temper. He gets impatient with people, too. But I think that's because he's intelligent and doesn't bother trying to communicate with people who won't show him any respect."

"Mama? How did you meet?" Josette interjected.

"I went to a matchmaker."

"Mother, you didn't. You mean to tell me that in all of Paris you couldn't meet someone on your own?" Hilaire gaped.

Josette looked pained. "Mama. You're still quite an attractive woman. You never have trouble making men's heads turn."

Mirielle glanced towards the observation end of the car where the men gathered. "I wanted a man with both heads working."

Josette stifled a giggle as Hilaire turned a rosy shade.

"Well you have to talk to them sometime. It might as well be with someone interesting."

Stepping into the dining room, Hilaire watched as Paul attempted to retrieve Henri, but was refused. Erik sat with something in his hand that Henri was reaching for. She went to the chair. "Everything all right?"

"I think we're fine." He replied. "Why don't you have your lunch and we'll just sit and look at the pocket watch."

"All right, Erik." She joined Paul at the table, filing a plate.

"You know if you time this right, Henri will be napping while you ladies take your walk," Paul said her.

"You don't mind?"

"Are you joking? You'll probably come back to three snoring men and Henri napping on the floor." He took a sip of wine. "Besides, Mirielle hasn't had a chance to go back and see your Father's grave."

Erik sat letting the pocked watch spin on its fob. Flashes of gold illuminated Henri's eyes as he reached for it. Erik let his fingers just barely get a grip on it. The boy laughed excitedly.

"Watch," Erik said lightly. "It's a watch."

Henri looked at him. "Wat?"

"Watch." He let Henri grasp it and pull. "Just don't try to bite it."

The child's face lit with the golden reflection off of the watch. His little fingers scratched over the surface. He glanced up and around at the voices behind him. "Shall we look and see who's here?" Erik lifted the boy enough to reposition him on his lap.

"Look," he pointed. "There is Mama and Papa."

Henri clung to the watch and held it up. "Eeeh. Grandma."

Mirielle came over to join them. "What is this?"

"Wat."

"Oh, it's very pretty. Be careful." She glanced at Erik. "Can I fix you a plate of something?."

"Oh, anything is fine. I'm sure it is all good."

Henri pointed a finger to his mother. "Mama?"

"Yes? Are you getting hungry? Shall I bring you something, too?" She straightened. "I'll bring a plate and you two can eat while the girls and I take a walk."

"Certainly," Erik replied.

Henri was bored with the watch and moved on to Erik's cravat. He seemed to be concentrating. His little cheeks turned red.

"My, you look—" Erik looked around. "I think he, ah, he needs someone." He caught a whiff of something and attempted to get Mirielle' attention. "Mirielle? Ah, darling, I think Henri needs something."

She looked at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Oh, I know what that look means." She put her cup back in its saucer and wiped the corners of her mouth. She smiled as she bent down and retrieved Henri. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

"Mirielle, the bag is next to the door," Paul told her. He sat his plate back on the table and got up.

"It's all right Paul. I think I remember how to do this."

"I'll bring the bag," Erik offered, rising quickly from his chair.

He followed behind Mirielle, hovering by the door. She headed for the water closet and Erik walked before the bed. "I hadn't realized anything so compact in size could create such an odorous cloud."

Mirielle's laughter filtered past the door, a bright sound in the air lifting the corners of his mouth as well. She bustled out with a cloth. "Did you hear that, Henri? Grandpapa is making fun of you."

She glanced over her shoulder as she pinned a clean diaper on the child. "Just remember; never leave a little boy uncovered when you do this. The cool air hits them and you will get hosed down."

Erik chuckled. "I hadn't realized children were such a font of bodily fluids."

"That's because you haven't spent time around them." She lifted Henri and offered him back to Erik's waiting hands. "Like a potato pulls salt out of broth, children will pull things out of you you hardly knew existed; strength, love, endless sleepless hours."

Erik brushed the boy's red curls. "He--is beautiful."

Mirielle smiled, resting a hand on his arm. His eyes looked decidedly misty behind his mask. "You are such a soft touch, " she teased happily.

The old fire caught in his gaze. "I am not."

She giggled as she turned away. "I never have been," he groused. A few steps behind her, he asked, "Do you think Josette will have any children?"

* * *

The trip to Muizon's cemetery had been a good idea. Mirielle stood by Henri's grave, arms linked with her daughters and said prayers. Tears coursed down her cheeks at the thought of how unfair it was that some dark part of his brain had betrayed him, stolen the closing years of his life.

She sent Josette and Hilaire into the church to light candles. Standing alone, she smiled. "I miss you, Henri. I always will. But I've met someone. He'll be a good grandfather and a good husband." She kissed her finger tips and ran them over the headstone. "I'll come visit you next time." Turning away, her skirts brushing her shoes as she walked to the church, she brushed the tracks of her tears from her face.

Arriving back at the rail car, the three Montalais women stood in front of the observation windows. "It makes you wonder how mankind has survived," Josette quipped. "They eat and then they fall asleep."

Hilaire smirked. "They do anything, they fall asleep."

"Even as babies," Mirielle agreed. Pushing open the door, they threaded their way past Radégonde's long legs, Paul who had a newspaper lying across his chest, and Erik lying on the floor on his back next to Henri.

Josette placed a kiss on her husband's mouth. He sat up blinking. "Back already?"

Paul let out a faint snore. Mirielle trod into the middle of the room. "You are fired, all of you. What poor watchmen for my rail car!"

Erik reached under her skirt and grasped her ankle. "It isn't missing is it? We're just conserving our strength."

"Goodness. And I suppose you had to inspect your eyelids for holes at the same time?"

He rolled to his side and got up, brushing a hand over his vest. His eyes flashed, as he leaned towards her cheek. "You keep me up at night, Madame." He brushed a kiss on her temple. "Did you have a nice visit?"

"Yes, I did." She glanced at her family. "Any one care for coffee or tea?"

Hilaire had coaxed Paul awake and followed her to the small kitchen. Chatting, they waited for Henri to finish his nap. Erik had to smile when the child awoke, he was a grumpy creature. Paul scooped him up; the boy laid his head on his father's thick shoulder and pouted.

"He has a red spot upon his cheek," he pointed out.

"A new tooth." Mirielle smiled at the boy. "Growing is a very hard job, isn't it?"

"Grandmamma."

"Yes," she cooed. "Grandmamma."

The women sorted through the remaining food, and Paul packed up Henri's bag. Erik looked at the empty space on the floor where he and the boy had napped. Paris did not seem such an important place for him anymore.

After a round of hugs and kisses, he and Mirielle promised to stop by the store before the train came by to pick up the rail car. Josette gave him a kiss upon his mask. "Take care of Mama for us."

"I will," he promised. "I think your Mother is planning on having dinner with you tomorrow night."

"Yes. We'll see you after your sight-seeing."

He stood behind Mirielle as they filed out of the door, feeling pleasant and bereft in turns. She turned to him. "Come, Grandpapa. Let's check that mark on your face."


	50. Bertram, Remendado, and Lorenzo

**Chapter Forty-eight: Bertram, Remendado, and Lorenzo**

Mirielle stood, looking concerned. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Right as rain. I told you it was nothing."

"I think that's a lot of bluster. You haven't even gone and looked."

"It hasn't bothered me all day," he protested.

"Well," she sighed. "I think I'll just put the dishes away."

Erik watched the sway of her bustle as she retreated. He went back to the chair that was becoming his favorite and lit the gas sconce above it. Going back to his book, he flipped page after page, half-listening to the sound of Mirielle's skirt as she passed through the room.

After a time, he heard her going along the windows, pulling the ties loose and closing the heavy drapes. He glanced over the top of his book as she came closer. She'd changed into her gown and robe. His gaze arrested on her curvaceous backside as she bent over a chair to reach for a curtain.

He hadn't realized until the night in Box Five when they had to take Cesar home, how he had grown to prefer a plush woman. Perhaps it was simply his want of making up for the years he'd lived starved of a woman's touch, as if he could glut himself now.

Truthfully, it was just Mirielle he appreciated. He smiled to himself. The little rogue bent low over his chair, the front opening of her robe dipping before his eyes as he gazed up over the gilded edges of the page.

She smiled. Her dark hair caressed her face and neck. "I was thinking about a glass of wine. Would you like one, darling?"

"Offering me an apple, Eve?" he asked dryly.

An insolent grin lifted her lips, her eyes twinkling in the gas light's flame. "Are you insinuating I'm a temptress?" She got on her knees, her arms folded on his thighs. "I thought we were going to bed early."

Her hand lifted to his vest, pulled out his watch and flipped it open. "It's not too early to retire. The wine would relax you."

"I'm not tired yet."

She sat up, her hands running to his cravat, her voice husky with promise. "You will be."

* * *

Erik lay on his side listening to Mirielle's soft breathing. He never slept without touching her somehow; legs close to hers, or her shoulder against him. Tonight he curled an arm around her waist and turned her on her side tucked against his body.

In the darkness he pulled at the ties on the mask. It sighed softly as it left his face. He tucked it under the edge of his pillow and curled up like a contented cat with his fiancée.

* * *

Erik made a cup of tea and sat it by her side of the bed, rubbing a hand over the bulge in the covers that was her hip. "Wake up, Eve. We have two hours to bathe, dress and bid Hilaire and Paul good-bye."

He went to bathe and dress, seeing she was struggling to wake up. She looked bleary eyed, and stayed in the water closet for a long time. When she stepped out, Erik thought her nose looked a bit red.

He took her hand. "Tears?"

She nodded, feeling a silly creature. "I miss the family."

Erik's eyes flashed a softly glowing sherry color. "I'm retired you know. We can visit any time you wish. That's why I bought the rail car."

"Thank you. You are so good to me."

He gathered her in his arms, his heart nearly bursting at the seams. "No. Thank you." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Come. If we walk briskly we can perchance help Hiliare with Henri's breakfast."

* * *

Time took wing, giving them a brief visit with Paul and Hilaire.

Erik watched the peculiar ritual of feeding babies, noting Henri was more interested in the texture of his food and squeezing it through his fingers that eating it. He did sit chewing a slice of toasted bread to a soppy strip that dangled from his mouth.

When the time came for them to leave, Mirielle wiped Henri's little face and gazed at him. "Come see your grandmamma, you handsome boy."

"We'll be there, Mama," Hilaire hugged her Mother. She turned misty eyes to Erik. Stepping forward with a hand outstretched, she clasped his. "Take care of her."

He took her hand, but did not reply. Coming from her, it was a pact of sorts. She was relinquishing her fears for her Mother and her sorrow for her Father. He placed a kiss upon her hand and one on Henri's bright curls as he huddled in her arms.

He held open the door for Mirielle. They both walked quietly to the platform where the car waited to be hitched up.

* * *

Reims was only a short jaunt. They secured a cab and dropped their baggage at the hotel where Nadir had secured reservations. Only the porter taking there bags had given him a double-take as he escorted Mirielle into the building.

Although it had been years since Erik had been in a hotel, he found that time must not exist for those establishments. A large bed, a generous sized water closet, and a fireplace outfitted this room. The décor was tasteful; no doubt it must appeal to the refined guests with its dark paneled walls and its strong colors in the drapes and rug.

No sooner had the door closed behind the porter, than Mirielle turned to him with a smile. "Ready to explore?"

It seemed an open ended question, which Erik replied to with a grin.

She gazed at the shrewd set of his eyes. "Reims," she clarified, giggling as his gaze traveled over her.

The mask dipped and lifted, almost coyly. She turned towards the door with a wink. "You old fox."

* * *

The doorman secured a cab for them. Having the driver wait they took in several of the sights Mirielle had mentioned. The site of the Temple to Mars was a park-like setting. An ancient stone wall was all that was left, but sported the remains of splendidly carved figures and columns.

From one marvel of architecture to another, Erik explained the features of the buildings to her as they wandered. The last stop was before a sign that proclaimed the cave of Piper Heidsieck was open for tours.

Drawing in a breath, he lifted his coat collar up close about his face and climbed down from the cab. Mirielle followed swiftly. He dipped the brim of his hat lower, the vapor of his breath floating away in the chill air. She wound her arm though his offered one and smiled. Erik took in a deep breath and stepped for the door.

The store front was filled with wine racks, a tasting area, and a sprinkling of small tables and chairs. Built of brick, they had whitewashed the inner walls, which were painted a warm buttery color by the gas sconces around the room. The light reflected on the curved surfaces of the bottles of Champaign and wines.

Erik stiffened as a man came forward. "Madame and Monsieur, welcome to Piper Heidsieck. May I be of some assistance?"

"We've come to take the tour," Mirielle responded.

"Ah! You have arrived just in time." He stood aside with a sweep of his arm. "Through that door and down the stairs. We will be starting the tour in approximately five minutes."

Erik waited until the man turned aside. Stepping behind Mirielle, he guided her by the elbow to the door and held the door for her. The stairwell was broad and well-lit with a sturdy iron rail to one side. At the bottom, people stood beside small buggies, chatting quietly. He dipped his head and switched sides with Mirielle, away from the milling people.

Their host followed them with alacrity, beginning the tour with a brief history of the establishment of the company. The room in which they stood had a rack of barrels along the walls over which large copper funnels, pipes of various lengths and spigots had been hung.

One floor below street level, the temperature was cool yet dry. As the other members of the tour clustered around their guide, Erik stood behind Mirielle and assessed the little group.

Led into another chamber, the couples were divided into small buggies. Erik guided Mirielle to the last in the line and helped her up. She smiled in the dim lights, her eyes shining. He patted her hand as it rested upon his arm. The lead buggy moved and each of the little mules followed the buggy before it.

They travelled for several minutes underground, passing room after room of chiseled rock that contained racks of the wine aging gently in the cool dark. Stopping in a large chamber, the tour guide invited them to alight form the buggies.

As the group clustered about a small table, the guide uncorked a number of bottles of champagne. Holding up one to the light, he began explaining the various types. The company had taken up venting in 1785 and was one of the best selling houses in France.

"Champagnes are made with a blend of 3 grapes; the Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier and Chardonnay. You may be surprised to learn that two of the grapes of Champagne are dark in color. The production quickly strips out the color which is mainly held in the outer skin of the grape. Thereby, the end result is the light and clear sparkling color. Rosé is made by allowing the skins of the black grapes to impart a small amount of color and then removing them, or by adding still red wine.

"All of our grapes are picked early in the season when the sugar is higher, thus allowing a subtle flavor to the wine which blends well with foods but does not overpower.

Champagne is classified by its sweetness. Doux being the highest in sugar content is a dessert champagne, while Brut is dry in comparison.

"Piper Heidsieck has a wide range of accessible wines that range in body from the light to the robust, full-bodied varieties."

Erik slid a glance at Mirielle. He knew what sort of wine she'd be. He even knew her flavor upon his tongue.

She grinned, the little strumpet. "I think I've learned to appreciate those robust, brooding ones."

"Mmmm. Creamy, delicate and a heady nose? I rather like those sweet versions," he told her softly.

Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks. Erik shot a glance at the group as they clustered around the guide asking questions. Taking hold of Mirielle's arm, he drew her back from the light of the lanterns. In the deep shadow, he kissed her quickly, both of their hats tipping out of the way.

She gave a throaty laugh and righted hers. Erik slid a possessive hand down her spine and propelled her back into the glow of the lights.

Along the edges of the crowd, a woman with watched them as her husband moved forward to select a glass. Mirielle smiled at her. "What would you like to taste, Erik? I'll bring you a glass."

"Anything," he told her, retreating a step backwards. His fey eyes disappeared in the darkness.

With a wink, she turned back to the group.

Erik watched as she selected a glass. A tall fellow next to her smiled toothily at her. A younger couple stood at the fringes of the group, sharing a glass together. Fingers entwined, heads close as they talked, they only had eyes for each other. The woman on the opposite side still shot a fleeting glance in his direction. She took out a handkerchief and mopped it at her brow.

Mirielle turned with a glass in her hand, she too examined the woman. Stepping over to her, she began conversing with her.

Erik melted back into the shadows. Most of the group had made little note of his being at the back. It took little time for three of the bottles to empty. Their guide seemed more than happy to stay in the cellar with them, sampling the bottles. The soft hum of conversation became punctuated with laughter. Erik relented and leaned upon the wall next to him. The group was growing tighter by the minute. Even the young lovers appeared to be breathing little harder. The young man was definitely feeling the effects of the wine, his hand roamed her back.

Standing at the fringe of the group, Erik watched Mirielle talk to several people. Pacing along the dark edge of the cellar, he listened in upon their conversation.

"Lord Bertram," Mirielle informed the man. "It was a duel, something to do with a royal family."

Bertram? Who in God's name was she talking about? Watching his fiancée, he continued around the little crowd and picked up a glass of champagne. He took a sip of it and followed her to another couple who stood looking concerned.

Erik nearly spat out the champagne. Bertram? She was spinning some sort of tale about a duel, a woman's honor, the British royals, and …his mask. Not caring if anyone saw him, he made his way back to the champagne and lifted half a bottle. Sniffing it, he found the bouquet palatable and poured it into a glass.

By the time he'd drank it, the group was quite happy to find their way back to their buggies. Mirielle smiled up at him as she joined him. "You little rogue," he accused.

She blinked innocently. "What ever do you mean?"

"You've been making up stories to explain my mask," he growled.

"Of course. People are curious, so rather than having them creeping about and peering at you, I just told them what they wanted to hear."

Erik examined her warm smile. "You mean they actually believed that codswallop?"

"They loved that nonsense, thank you very much."

He considered the group as they sat in their buggies. At least no one had fainted. Perhaps Mirielle's duplicity had kept the gawkers away. "Who is Bertram?"

"_Robert le Diable_? His father was Bertram."

"Good lord, you've used a name from an Opera?"

"Yes. I also thought about Remendado from _Carmen_ and Papageno from Mozart. I rather fancy Lorenzo as a man's name. You can be Lorenzo Papageno next time, a wealthy Italian merchant who fought pirates off of the Barbary Coast."

Despite his surprise, Erik began to laugh.


	51. Lorenzo’s Friends

**Chapter Forty-Nine: Lorenzo's Friends**

Climbing out of the buggy, Erik followed Mirielle up the stairs. The shop now had a number of people bustling about and taking care of the tour group's purchases.

"Anything you wish to take with you?"

"That laughter of yours." She gave his hand a squeeze. "We could take home a bottle for Lorenzo."

"And what would our Italian friend prefer?"

"Oh, I don't know. Your tastes are closer to his. What do you think?"

"I liked the flavor of that Blanc de Noir."

The dark and the light, she mused. How fitting for him. "A bottle for the evening?"

"Choose as you like. Lorenzo might like to make friends with Jeroboam or Salmanazar."

"What opera is that?"

"They are the sizes of the bottles, dear girl. _My Julliette Really Makes Splendid Belching_ _Noises_, which stands for Magnum, Jeroboam, Rehoboam, Methuselah, Salmanazar, Balthazar and Nebuchadnezzar. There is also a rare Salomon and the gigantic Primat. There is a bit of difference between Bourdeax and Burgandy region names."

"Goodness, Lorenzo has a lot of acquaintances."

"Yes, but biblical ones rather than pirates."

"Well, invite his friends and we'll have a cozy evening in our suite."

Erik invited Jeroboam's four bottles.

* * *

Dinner was to be an informal affair with Josette and Radégonde at their home. Erik sat reading a book while Mirielle came through on a cloud of that wonderful perfume of hers. He assisted her with the closings of her dress. "What is that you wear?"

"The fragrance? It's just something I made up. I use drops of rose, jasmine, and lavender oils."

"It's very feminine."

"Thank you." She smiled shyly. She added her ear rings as she stood before him. "Did you call a cab?

"We can when we get downstairs." He extended his arm. "Shall we?"

"Yes, Monsieur Vachon."

"Mmm," he rumbled in her ear. "Practice saying that for later."

Down the stairs, he guided her towards the door of the hotel. Out on the curb, the occupants of a cab were climbing down. Erik turned his eyes away from the woman who was standing at the cab's door, tensing instinctively as her eyes widened.

The silly creature's shrill scream split the air. Mirielle's head turned in the direction of the woman, her fingers tightening upon his arm. Joining his hand to hers, he dipped his head and guided her to the cab.

"I wish you were still a magician," she said tightly. "You could make her disappear."

Knowing full well that people clustered behind him whispering behind his back, Erik ignored the group and stepped into the cab. He hazarded a glance at Mirielle's angry features.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes.

"None of that," he chastised gently, reaching for her hand. "It's bound to happen again."

She pursed her lips before nodding. "I understand now why purchased the rail car for us."

"I did not want to embarrass you."

She shook her head vehemently. "I'm not embarrassed. I'm angry. I'm so very angry at how callously rude people are."

"Mirielle, I've dealt with it my whole life." He made a careless gesture. "It doesn't concern me anymore. If anything, I feel saddened that it upsets you."

"I love you. I don't like to think that people will treat you like this."

He grasped her hand in the darkness, feeling his ring upon her finger. "It will happen again, and we rise above it by treating it with the disdain it warrants."

"All right, Erik."

* * *

Josette's home was an unusual building standing in a row of homes. Since the surrounding structures were two stories, and Josette's was three, Erik wondered when the additional floor had been added.

Radégonde met them at the door, greeting Mirielle with a kiss and Erik with a firm handshake. Josette came from a room at the back with an apron on. "Hello, Mama. How was your sightseeing?"

"Fine. We took in several places including the tour at Piper Heidsieck." She offered one of the bottles of champagne to Josette.

"I haven't had champagne in a long time."

"How is Radégonde doing with his paintings?"

"He sold two. He still bemoans not being accepted into one of the galleries, but he did find an art dealer who will take him on."

"Oh, good. He just will have to bide his time and keep painting." She looked at her daughter. "And how are you?"

"Fine. Things are really busy at my job right now. Radé has been doing some portraits on the weekends for extra money. He's still at the factory, you know."

"Yes," Mirielle replied. "I suppose his painting gives him something to look forward to. The mill really took everything I had. Too much noise and everything hurried."

"Mama?

"Yes, dear?"

"I had a bit of a scare not long ago. I was late."

Mirielle held her breath. "Are you trying?"

Josette shook her head. "We can't afford it."

"I think only the rich can 'afford it'. There is never a good time to have children. If you wait too long, you never will." She paused and slid her arm around Jo's shoulder. "I have one grandchild already. Don't hurry for me."

"It's Radé's parents. His Papa wishes him to give up his art and get a profession."

Mirielle made a disgusted snort. "The man's a bank teller. How professional is counting other people's money? As I recall, they didn't even help pay for his schooling."

"I know. But he harps on about a man supporting his family. I think Radé feels he isn't being a proper husband."

"We know better than that. Perhaps if he can interest Erik, we can bring some of his work to Paris."

"Would you?" Josette whispered.

Mirielle smiled at her child. "Of course, Jo. What else are parents for?"

* * *

Josette bemoaned her cooking skills, but being a bachelor for nearly fifty years had left Erik appreciative of anyone's cooking. Although not as grand a presentation as Hilaire's, the atmosphere was cozy and the conversation was lively.

Their home was almost provincial. The interior walls were thick stucco, and the floors were tiled. The central fireplace was stone rather than brick. The young couple's taste ran to the exotic. A colorful shawl draped their settee, an oriental style table sat near it, graced with a Moroccan lantern. Their eclectic taste made the small home vibrant with color.

Radégonde took him up to his studio on the upper floor. Apparently another artist had expanded the house, filling the upper story with windows. Erik noted a cracked window had been taped along the jagged edge.

"You should get that replaced. You must be losing heat up here."

The younger man looked at it silently. "I've got some cash coming in from a sale of a landscape. I keep using the cash for other things first."

"Surely your paints must thicken." Erik knew firsthand how temperamental oils could be. "I'll pay for the glazer if I can take one of your paintings in trade."

"Monsieur, you don't have to."

"Are you joking? You know your mother-in-law better than that. If she finds you are up here shivering, she'll be walking the floor at night. Besides," he pointed to a small unframed canvass. "I like your use of color in this one."

The subject of the painting was a girl sitting upon a door's stoop, her hand outstretched to pet a dog. The sunlit study was full of purples in the shadows and bright golden oranges reflected off the glass above her head. The dog stretched its nose to her awaiting finger.

"Thank you. She lived next to us when I was growing up. She moved to England and has four children now."

"I should select another, if this one has a sentimental attachment to it."

"Take it, Erik," Radégonde said with a smile. "If you are an artist you know all too well that every project has a sentimental value."

"True," Erik agreed. Hadn't Mirielle pointed out how his hands caressed the stone of the Garnier?

"May I sketch you sometime?"

Erik covered his shock with a self-deprecating grin. "Why would you want to waste your talents on my ugly face?"

Radégonde responded quietly, "Some day when my work hangs in some great hall, I'd like to be remembered for a rendition of the eponymous Phantom." He hastened to add, "None of the others have suspected yet. Paul and Hil don't go to Paris. A friend of mine gets the newspaper. He's been keeping up with the 'Velvet Widow'."

"Good lord," Erik groused. "I should have nipped that in the bud."

"Not to worry. Most people view it as just some spectacular nonsense. It will be replaced soon with a new feature. Unless I misunderstand the situation, the Ghost will be retiring from the public eye?"

"Yes." He thought of Christine. "I suppose I stayed on because of one of my projects."

"I've been thinking of doing illustrations for books. The east has always captured my interest. Will you tell me about your travels sometime?"

"Certainly. When you come down for the wedding, I'll introduce you to Nadir, a Persian gentleman I have known for years. He'll talk your ear off about his country if you let him."

"Thank you."

"Perhaps we can have dinner at a restaurant he and I frequent while the women are doing whatever it is they do before a wedding."

Radégonde carried the canvas down to the cab. Erik settled into the seat with Mirielle after a round of hugs from Josette and Radégonde. It was a short trip to the hotel, and a swift climb to their room.

He helped her off with her coat. "Are you tired?"

"My neck is a little stiff," she complained.

"Why don't you sit on the chaise and I'll massage that for you?"

They sat down together, her back to him. Erik rubbed his fingers to warm them before tracing the line of her neck from her shoulder to her skull. "You are tight."

Her giggle dissolved into a throaty moan. "Thank you."

"The neck or the shoulders?"

"My neck."

She eventually sighed and leaned back against him, right where he wanted her to be.

* * *

A/N: As this story progresses, there have been a few chapters with adult content. If you'd like to see the chapters, you would have to email me. If you wish the story published along side this with an 'M' rating, let me know. 


	52. Chapter 52

**A/N: Sorry about this, another shuffle is called for. Evidently I cannot post an author's note in place of a chapter as I did.   
Here's the note: The Risque Chapters were left up for a week. i can't post them here without jeopardizing my rating and getting ousted from Fanfic. i'll find them a home in the "M" section--I promise.**

**The Previous note was to replace that chapter, but it,too, can get me kicked out. I don't understand why--as it was only a couple of lines. So...I deleted those chapters, and moved this one into the slot. It will hose-up the reviews for the next one ('You already have posted--blah, blah). Send me a pm if you re inclined. We'll see how the next one goes.  
The last thing i can think of to keep my account open? Maybe a pint of blood or my first-born grandchild? sigh **

* * *

**Chapter Fifty: Twelve Commandments**

During the trip back to Paris, they played cards while rain painted the windows of the car with wavering colors beyond the glass. At the station, Nadir was waiting with a cab. He regarded Erik with a slight smile. "How was it?"

Erik nodded slowly. "It went well."

"Your grandchild?"

"He's beautiful. He's so bright, so full of promise."

"We were all that way once," Nadir replied.

Erik held out a hand to assist Mirielle from the platform of the rail car. She smiled down at Nadir. "Has he started bragging yet?" she teased.

Erik squinted at her. "Bragging? As if you wouldn't. You are his Grandmamma."

"So," Nadir cut in, "are they all coming to the wedding?"

"Yes. We've decided on the sixth."

Nadir's smile melted. "Of what? You mean the sixth of February? Just twelve days from now?"

"What's wrong with the sixth?"

Nadir stepped close to Mirielle. "We've been making plans, but there is still so much to do!"

Erik cocked his head and regarded the two. "What plans? We only need set up a time with the church…."

"There's a little more to it than that," Mirielle put in. "I have to secure a dress, and then there are flowers."

Nadir lifted his hands. "The guests? The dinner, or breakfast or lunch? The ushers! The seating arrangements! The gifts! The guest list and invitations!" He began to sputter. "The-the music, Erik! You aren't planning any music?"

"Invitations? We invited Mirielle's family."

"Don't worry, you two." Mirielle sat a hand on each of the men's arms. "I'm sure everything will come together just perfectly."

"Yes," Erik agreed. "Perfectly."

Nadir sent him a withering glare. "That's easy for you to say. You are just the groom. You get dressed and show up with a ring, while Mirielle and the ladies and I will be left to organize the whole wedding."

"I don't understand your worry, Nadir," Erik replied. "We dress up and see the priest. How difficult is that?"

Nadir rolled his eyes and looked to Mirielle for help. "You explain it to him."

She looked at Erik. "Did they pick up our bags?"

"I'll see," Erik replied, walking away towards the street.

"Nadir," she whispered. "The less he knows, the better. He will only start getting flustered by the whole thing."

Nadir flicked at his mustache impatiently. "You're right. The hardest part of all this is going to be keeping him distracted."

"I'm going to be at the apartment packing for the next few days. We can talk about it there." She stepped away and turned to see Erik coming back.

"Ready to go home?" He asked cheerily.

"Yes, dear man." She wrapped her arm through his. "But we should stop by the apartment and let the ladies know where I'll be."

Nadir followed them to the cab, blowing out a breath of cold air, and pondering how to stage a quiet campaign around a man of Erik's genius.

* * *

Catherine heard the door open. Stepping from the kitchen, she glimpsed Mirielle followed by the tall figure of Erik. Smiling, she saw Nadir coming through the door. "Hello everyone. How was your trip?"

Mirielle stopped before the little sofa. "We've picked the date. We're getting married on the sixth."

Noting the dark look on Nadir's face, Catherine asked. "Two weeks? That sixth? The sixth of February?"

"Yes," Mirielle replied.

Catherine came forward and gave Mirielle a hug. "I'm so happy for you." She sent a wink over Mirielle's shoulder to Nadir who finally began to smile. "We'll help, of course. Ursulé loves weddings, although she complains she cries at every one of them."

Releasing Mirielle she turned to Erik. "Congratulations, Monsieur." She offered a hand, which he enfolded in his long fingers. "You will take care of her for us?"

He nodded, his strange golden eyes looking deeply into hers. "Always."

Catherine suppressed a shiver. The finality of the word meant that even death would not dare to separate them. Chiding herself for such dark thoughts, she grinned. "Why do I believe that you have come then to spirit her away from us?"

Mirielle ducked her head shyly. "He won't let me go. But I will be coming over to pack and make arrangements."

"And I'll be stopping by to help," Nadir added. "If that is all right with you and Ursulé."

"Certainly, Nadir." Catherine felt her cheeks warming.

He addressed Erik. "We should come back in an hour or so. Mirielle can get a few things together."

"What?"

"We should give them some time…" Nadir stressed.

"For what?" Erik turned his full attention to Nadir.

Raising finger to his nose, Nadir indicated the door with his eyes. Erik recognized that sign. Nadir wanted a private moment.

"Go on, you two," Mirielle said.

Erik stepped towards the door. "An hour?"

"When ever," she replied airily.

As Erik stepped out onto the landing, Nadir hastily put himself between Erik and the door. "I'll keep him busy," he reassured the ladies as he pulled the door closed.

"Where are we going?" Erik asked.

"Come on, let's get a cup of coffee."

"We could do that here."

"No Erik," Nadir replied. "We can't." He started down the stairs. "It's time for woman talk."

"Oh." Erik took one last glance at Mirielle's door. "What do you think they will talk about?"

They stepped out into the wan winter sunlight. "Not them, Erik. Us."

"What?"

Nadir laughed. "You keep saying 'what'. You and I need to discuss living with women."

"We've been together for three days, daroga. I don't have any questions."

"You will," Nadir snorted.

"Like…" It was on the tip of his tongue to ask 'what'.

Nadir glanced hastily around them. "Women do things once a month." He stepped towards the curb and waved for a cab. "You must understand, things can get a little…awkward for a few days."

The cab rolled to a stop before them. Erik climbed in and waited till it pulled away from the curb. "What's awkward about it? I thought they just got very—well they gripe a lot and want chocolate don't they?"

Nadir nodded. "Chocolate is a man's only defense."

"_Defense?"_

"Truthfully, Erik. I don't see you as being any good at groveling, so you had better avail yourself of what wisdom I may offer."

Thinking back at the questions he had put to Nadir after his first night with Mirielle, Erik throttled the urge to scoff. "What sort of wisdom?"

Nadir regarded him solemnly. "We'll go to your place for coffee. You'll probably want to lace it with cognac by the time we are done."

"The sixth?" Catherine eyed Mirielle.

"He's never been married. He's a little worried something might happen."

"How did he get on with your family?"

"Very well. He's absolutely intrigued by little Henri."

"A doting Grandfather, eh?"

"Yes. The only one who balked the whole trip was Hilaire. I think she would have at anyone."

Catherine helped put Mirielle's things in the trunk. "You did write to them about…the mask didn't you?"

"No." Mirielle made a face. "I thought it would be better for them to just meet him outright. Really, I didn't know what to say. I thought Erik could explain it to them better than I could."

Catherine straightened and looked at the woman. "So I would be safe in assuming that you didn't tell them he lives _under_ the Opera?"

"No."

"Are you going to live there?"

"We plan to. We also plan to travel."

"Mirielle, what are you going to do when they come to Paris? They will wonder why you haven't brought them to Erik's home."

Mirielle sighed. "I've thought about that."

Erik shrugged off his coat and dropped it and his hat on the sofa. "I'll start the coffee."

Nadir headed for the kitchen behind him. Taking up one of the chairs, he sat, crossing his forearms on the table's surface. "You are about to become one of the happiest men on the face of the earth. But that situation can turn in the blink of an eye."

"Are we back to women being tigers?"

"No." Nadir shook his head. "That's courtship. This is marriage. It's worse."

"Go on. I'm listening."

"What would you say if Mirielle paraded before you in a dress and asked if it made her look fat?"

Erik sat in the other chair. "Is she gaining weight?"

"Ah," Nadir raised a hand. "That is precisely the sort of thing that will land you on the sofa for the evening."

Erik's lips turned to a flat line at the edge of his mask. "I'm not sleeping on the sofa!"

"You will be if you take that attitude!" Nadir retorted. "Or worse."

"What's worse than being kicked out of your own bed?"

"Sleeping with an angry woman."

"I…." Erik didn't voice his thought. Mirielle had been angry with him and hurt when they had had their row in box five. Thinking about it made his stomach feel as if a stone had been dropped in it. "I should tell her she looks beautiful?"

"That sounds good, but I can tell you she will get huffy because now you haven't told her she isn't getting heavy."

"I should tell her she's not looking heavy? And that she's beautiful," he finished with no small amount of satisfaction.

Nadir tsked. "You just omitted the ninth commandment."

Erik blinked. "Omitted?"

"Did it! You did the ninth…."

"_Committed_, you mean. The ninth commandment as I recall was 'You shall not covet your neighbor's wife'. When did I do that?"

Nadir considered. "All right. Perhaps it's the twelfth commandment." He waved a hand. "What ever number it is it is impertinent that you never hesitate!"

"Slow down, daroga," Erik urged. "Your French is growing deplorable. Now, you are saying it is wrong to hesitate?"

"Absolutely!" He smacked the table top. "If you wait for one tiny moment, one small second, she will take it that you are thinking up a lie to appease her."

Erik looked down at his coffee cup. "Isn't that what I just did anyway?"

"You must never let her think you are trying to tell her what she hopes to hear."

"Even though that is what she wants?"

"Yes."

"God…." Erik sat his chin in his hand and regarded the Persian. "Do all women do this?"

Nadir made a face and shrugged. "We are all married to the same person, we just don't know it."

"Meaning?"

"I was the chief of police, Erik. I've heard this same complaint from men in two countries now. This is the one situation that will turn a man's guts to water. I'm telling you I have seen men of courage, fortitude, men who could laugh in the face of death turn into stone and choke on their own tongues when their wives ask them this question. It is, beyond all doubt, the most abhorrent thing you will face because there is no correct answer."

Erik got up from the table and walked to his parlor. He reappeared a moment later with his cognac decanter. "I have a feeling there is a lot more you are going to tell me."


	53. Preparations

**Chapter Fifty-one: Plans In the Making**

Erik pulled out his pocket watch. The coffee was cold, the cognac was making his head light, and Nadir's French had degenerated to some bizarre half-Arabic argot that was growing too difficult to understand.

They had started with hesitating before a woman, and wound up adding several more commandments. "Do they…," Erik waved vaguely," do they have this problem as well?"

"What, women?"

"Yes."

Nadir crossed his arms on the table. "I believe so. Haven't you ever noticed when one leaves the room, they all do."

"Ah." Erik closed his watch. "Can we go get Mirielle now?"

"I must warn you of one last thing."

"Yes?"

"The wedding preparations," Nadir began. "Things might get a little confusing. She's going to have to make a lot of decisions, a lot of choices. She might get tired, and she might seem secretive."

Erik's tawny eyes seemed to glow from within. "Secretive?"

Nadir chose his words carefully. "You have been together, but this is her last chance to surprise you. She won't want you to see her dress."

Erik sat back and Nadir relaxed. The light of curiosity had fled the man. "All right," Erik replied easily. "I'll let her handle this. Women are so enamored with weddings. I wouldn't want her anxious."

_Praise Allah!_ It was time to get him back to the apartment and check in with Mirielle. Nadir got up and took his coffee cup to the sink. "I'll just use your water closet before we go. Do you want to meet me in the boat?"

Erik's attention was centered upon the sink. "I wonder if we should stop at the market on the way back." He moved to the pantry. "We could dine out if she's tired."

"Excellent idea," Nadir broke in. "She's going to be very busy." He hastily made his way to the water closet. On the other side of the closed door he listed to Erik's front door close. Counting to ten, he cracked open the door and took a quick look.

He opened the door and sprinted down the hall to the guest bedroom. Inside a drawer was a neat stack of envelopes. Nadir smiled and lifted them out carefully, sliding them into every available pocket her had. Patting down his jacket, he sauntered out of the bedroom.

* * *

Mirielle tore the sheet of paper into thirds. Pocketing one part as Erik and Nadir picked up bags to ferry downstairs to the cab, she handed a section to Catherine.

Catherine slipped hers on the kitchen shelf. "Do you want me to give the other to Nadir?" she asked casually.

Mirielle looked at her roommate. "Are you two going to be working closely on this?"

Catherine smiled. "I hope so. Monsieur Kahn is a shy fellow."

Mirielle handed the scrap over to Catherine who read it over before adding it to its twin on the shelf. "Where are you going for your dress?"

"I thought I would go back to the Ouvard's who made my blue velvet dress. They did such a wonderful job and were so helpful."

"You know, you should talk to that de Brie."

"Oh, heavens no! Erik would have a seizure if the press became involved." Mirielle regarded Catherine as if she had just sprouted horns.

"No," Catherine lifted a hand. "He could be sure that La chance fellow is busy elsewhere. Then you would be sure that your plans don't become known!"

Mirielle grinned, looking embarrassed. "Sorry. Not thinking."

"Someone getting the wedding jitters?"

Mirielle blushed. "It would be most embarrassing if something happened between us at this point. He's met my children, and he seems happy, but you know how men are." She waved a hand. "They balk at commitment, and he is a confirmed bachelor."

"Who gave you that little slip of a costume?" Catherine prompted.

Mirielle glanced towards the door. "I suppose…."

"All's fair in love and war? Or in this case, marriage? And don't forget that adorable little Henri. I don't think that man is going anywhere without you."

"Thank you, Catherine." Mirielle gave her a hug. "I'll start arranging for the dress tomorrow. Maybe we can have lunch."

* * *

Not quite a mile away in a pleasant little apartment building, Marcelline Rameau stood by her door, indulging in a small Turkish cigarette. The clomping of heavy footsteps preceded the stooped shoulders of a man coming up her basement stairs. She dropped the cigarette in a dish and wrapped her shawl around herself. "Who was it?"

His pale eyes sought hers, then slid away. "It was Monsieur Three."

The corners of her mouth drew down in distaste. "Did anyone see you haul the body out?"

The man's name was Emile Surget, but since swearing in as a member of the Brotherhood of Brown Coats, he was known as Monsieur One. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "He was sort of spread out in a couple of bags. I just tossed him into the furnace."

"Oh, God!" Marcelline snatched up her cigarette and waved the man inside her apartment. "We have got to find another way. That's two men this week, and the last performance is coming up in a little over a week!"

Monsieur One glanced out into the hallway and then pushed her door closed. "Dynamite is the only way I know of to blow up the…you know where," he whispered forcefully.

"Not if it blows all of us up first," she spat. "Send in Number Six. Have him try to find a way into the…you know where."

"The Opera?"

"Shush!" _you imbecile_, she thought.

"Maybe we need a smaller bomb?" Number One proposed. "The Communards laced all the sewers with gun powder. Touch it off, and _poof_! No more Paris." He considered a moment. "At least not the Arrondissements…."

"We can't count on that. That gunpowder has been down there for over a decade. Surely it is worthless now."

He seemed to consider that implication. "What about gas?"

"What gas?"

"The Opera has gas mains running to it. Remember Jean, I mean Monsieur Four, he works for the city. The mains were worked on last year. They must run into the building."

"All right. Have Four and Six see about the gas." She paused and plucked a piece of tobacco off of the top of her tongue. "But I want a bomb, number One. I want to see flames, and what better way than to torch that obscene palace of gilded marble."

Number One stood straight and saluted the woman. "Long live the Communard!"

She hardly noticed him retreating from her apartment. Looking out the window, her eyes fastened upon the roof of the Garnier. After the explosion, it would become the funeral pyre denied her husband and sons after they were executed as Communards. "Tomb without a cross or chapel," she repeated under her breath.

* * *

Erik and Nadir took care of carrying in the cases that Mirielle had packed. She walked through the house, pulling the pin out of her hat, listening to the two men's voices.

Hanging her hat upon one of the open pegs of the hall tree, she turned to see Erik and Nadir looking sheepish. "Yes?"

"Mirielle, I think we have a problem," Erik said gravely.

"What's wrong?"

Erik stood staring at her until Nadir stepped closer and gave him a nudge. "Sleeping arrangements."

She'd already thought about it when Erik had impetuously asked her to never leave his side. "Yes?"

"I seem to only have one bed…."

"I know, darling. My room has the bed. Your room has a coffin in it." She tried very hard to keep a grin from rising to her lips.

Erik's thin lips became a flat line at the edge of his mask. "Our room will have a bed tomorrow," he bit out. "Nadir and I are going shopping for it."

"All right," she said airily. She slid off her coat and turned away, biting her lips to keep from laughing. She could make out Nadir's attempt to whisper and Erik's voice dropping a register in a curt reply.

"Dearling," Erik began. "I thought for at least tonight you and I could snuggle up in your bed." He walked to her side and rested a hand on the wall above her head, looking down at her. "You don't want to get cold do you?"

She felt a frisson of excitement run through her body. Standing near, his voice made her feel as if she were melting. His long fingers slid down her arm, grasping her hand and lifting it to his lips to gently brush a kiss upon her knuckles.

"You are a scoundrel."

He flashed a smile at her. "I'm your scoundrel."

"Yes," she sighed. "You are."

* * *

Marcelline is repeating part of a quote by Joules Jouy in regards to "The Wall" in the Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris where 147 Communard men and women were shot. Demonstrations at the Wall have been held since 1880.

"Tomb without a cross or chapel, or golden lilies, or sky blue church windows, when the people talk about it, they call it The Wall." - Joules Jouy


	54. Rosy Hours

**Chapter Fifty-two: Rosy Hours**

Nadir carefully slipped out the wedding invitations from the envelopes in the same order that Erik had stacked them in. A variety of them were embossed as well as emblazoned with family crests and devices from some of the more prominent families in Europe.

He made a list of each couple's names and the addresses. One thing became apparent almost immediately. Erik's influence had ranged further than Christine Daaé. Now these women were married to prosperous men and scattered over the continents.

Countesses, Baronesses, a few mistresses of kings and several married in the intimate circle of family around a monarch. With the appointed hour of Erik's nuptials creeping closer with every tick of the clock, Nadir decided it would be expedient to take his list to a telegraph office.

He'd have to give Catherine's address as the return for the RSVP's. He only hoped Erik's former students would remember how precise Erik was in his dealings, and would therefore return the favor.

* * *

Never one to lay abed, Erik arose first. It was just as well for it allowed him the luxury of indulging in the day's first steaming cup of coffee.

Nadir had picked up the Paris paper for him while he was away. Looking back over the stack of them, he sat wrapped in his robe until he heard Mirielle stirring. She was quiet, but the soft whispered of her robe across the rugs and the smell of her perfume preceded her into the parlor.

"Morning," she said softly. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Yes." He pulled out her chair and waited for her to sit. Kissing her temple, he turned to fetch a cup and saucer for her. "I was just about to get dressed. Nadir should be by within the hour."

"That shopping trip you mentioned last night?"

He gave her only a sidelong glance as a reply. The little rogue had snuggled up in her bed with a book, leaving him to glower at her from the door until she relented and with a flick of the sheets, invited him in with her. They had slept like spoons in a drawer.

"Yes, our bed. Do you have any preferences?"

"No, not really. You have a wonderful eye for design, Erik. I shall leave it up to you."

"And where will you be today?"

"I'll be getting some ideas for my dress."

He left her, smiling to himself. Most of the day he planned on how he was going to get her out of that dress once she was his wife.

* * *

After a quick perusal through some magazine and sketches for dresses, Mirielle held up the image for Camille Ouvard to look over.

"What sort of color did you prefer?" Camille asked.

Tradition dictated that a widow would not be able to wear pristine white for her gown. Mirielle considered an ivory, a salmon, and a lavender satin. She finally settled on the lavender, knowing Erik would like it because it complimented her blue eyes.

After looking though books on veils, they came up with one that suited her, and Mirielle stripped off her dress for measurements.

* * *

Erik sat in box five tapping his foot and listening to the argument on the stage. The new Romanian baritone was becoming enamored with one of the singers to such a degree that rehearsals were hampered by the cow eyes he was casting at the girl rather than paying attention to his lines.

Nadir entered the box and sat, looking over the rail at the tableau as the stage manager turned his back and the baritone stole a glance at the girl. "What's going on?"

"That's Dragos Patrascu. He's the high priest, but his attention seems to be snared by that lissome little creature with the huge brown eyes." Erik pointed to the lady in question. "If they aren't careful, the managers will remove her from the last performances.

"What a shame."

Erik snorted. "It will be a shame for the audience to sit waiting for him to begin his lines. He's mucking up the entire scene. Verdi would have a seizure if he witnessed this."

Nadir pushed his hands in his pockets. "Perhaps they need help."

"How so?" Erik asked.

"You know, a little whispered advice."

Erik turned in the chair and looked at Nadir. "You know I'm thinking of giving up my tenure as protector of the Opera. I'm getting married. I no longer need to meddle in other people's affairs."

A sharply spoken flurry of words on the stage drew both of their attention. Nadir sat back. "The poor little thing will get fired you know. She'll be out of a job and the baritone will be on his way back to Romania."

They sat in silence for a moment. Erik finally rose and shrugged on his overcoat. "Perhaps later, after we purchase a bed."

The shopping trip was quick, the maneuvering the bed down into the cellars was not. After removing their coats and carrying down the headboard and footboards, the daunting task of carrying the mattress down had both Nadir and Erik stopping on occasion to pull out a handkerchief and wipe their brows.

Erik turned away, loosening the ties on his mask while Nadir sat down on a crate and held the mattress upright. "Are you going to stay down here?"

"What?"

"Are you going to continue to live down here, you and your bride?"

"We haven't talked about it yet."

"You were gone for three days and you didn't talk?" Nadir laughed.

"Not about that," Erik huffed. "I was busy meeting the children. Although it still seems odd to refer to a small group of adults as children." He paused. "You aren't asking because you don't want to take this down are you? We are over half way there."

"I was thinking that when the children arrive, they will be curious about your home. Did you tell them about…?"

"Heavens, no." Erik leaned the mattress against a timber pillar and leaned against it. "I suppose we shall have to. Unless we can come up with something else to tell them. They will be using the rail car. Could we keep them there?"

"Erik," Nadir admonished. "The girls will want to help dress their Mama. Will Mirielle be at her apartment?"

"No, she stays with me. She promised, and I promised not to look."

"Look?"

"You know. The night before and all that. It's considered bad luck."

"Why?"

"I have no idea. I thought it was some of the 'secretive' nonsense you were insinuating."

Nadir shook his head. "Your European ways are strange, indeed."

Erik cast a glance at his companion. "Our customs? They've come down from the time of the Cesar's."

"Do you have a lot of preferences according to what's custom?"

"No," Erik lifted a hand. "A priest, a gold band, and to hear Mirielle say 'yes'."

"Wonderful." Nadir got to his feet. "Let's push on. I'm supposed to pick up Catherine this afternoon."

"Oh? Is there something going on between you two?"

"Who, us? That comes later. First we will arrange your marriage."

"I told Radégonde I would take him to our favorite restaurant. He seems keen to taste Persian food."

"Perfect! We shall have your bachelor dinner there while Mirielle and the girls have their little get together."

"What do women do at those?"

"Which one?"

"The girls."

"How would I know?"

"Well, you were married once. Did you ever ask your wife?"

Nadir sighed. "Our wedding s have been the same for centuries. She has a henna night, the men have a dinner, we get up and sign the marriage contracts and have the little celebration and Sofreh-ye Aghd before the guests and then we go our separate ways until it's time for us to be alone."

Erik stopped. "The table? The Sofreh-ye Aghd?"

"Yes. You've been to our weddings. Catherine and I are going to have one made for you." Nadir attempted to push the mattress, but Erik was in its way. "Are we stuck?"

"No." Erik guided the mattress around a corner and started down the stairs. "You're going to lay out the table?"

"Yes. We are going to have everyone come to my apartment at the end for the reception. We'll give you a proper send off!"

Erik remained silent and Nadir wondered if he was being cautious on the stairs, or if something had come to light that bothered him. When they reached a landing, Erik did something near the wall and a section of the corridor opened before them. Inside Nadir caught the flash of a mirror.

Erik stopped inside the door, his tawny eyes blinked out, leaving dark holes inside his mask. "Wait here a moment." His voice bounded around the mirrored room.

Nadir nearly kicked himself. He must have passed this point on his way to Erik's after the debacle with Christine a hundred times. He had never been able to find another opening into the catoptric chamber.

The glass looked dusty. Curiously no spider webs hung from the iron trees with their carved leaves. He felt the urge to rebel as he neared the doorway. He and the young Vicomte had nearly died in this hellish device.

Footsteps approached and the mattress was pulled into the room. Stepping forward, Nadir saw Erik's tall frame mirrored in glass.

"I'll understand if you don't want to come through this way," Erik said softly.

Nadir shook his head. "It was a long time ago."

Erik continued pulling. Nadir planted his hands on the mattress and focused on his fingers. In a matter of moments they were through the room and coming out through a swinging panel in Erik's main hall. The panel whispered closed behind Nadir. "You should nail that up, Erik. You wouldn't want Mirielle to find herself trapped inside that…thing."

Erik turned back to the panel. Despite his rising nervousness, Nadir followed. Erik stood gazing up at the iron trees. "I owe you a gift, Nadir."

"Oh, no, Erik."

"Would you be my best man?"

Nadir smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Then this shall be my gift to you." Erik walked a slow circle in the center of the room, his image following him in the sheets of silvered glass.

"Hours and hours, daroga. Too many hours to recount anymore. Rosy hours, red with the misery of the dying. The Khanum enjoyed their struggles." He paused. "Do you know why I prefer the Punjab lasso?"

"No. Truly, I had never considered it."

"It left no blood. I killed them for her sadistic pleasure; all the while secretly cheating her of the blood." Erik drew in a sharp breath. "I hated the frightened faces. The startled ones made me feel ashamed."

"You did what you had to do, Erik. She would have killed you if you didn't. It was how she manipulated you, how she manipulated all of us."

"Oh, so easily the blame is laid is it not?" He spoke softly. "Did you know she had me kill Hoshyar?"

The sounds of startled voices and the smells of blood and offal came flooding back to Nadir. The face of the man had been hacked beyond recognition. Arcs of blood painted grisly trails over the walls. He'd been trying to reach his wife. Ardvisura lay on the bed, her throat slit neatly. They had all believed Prince Hoshyar had tried to stop an assassin. Suddenly overwhelmed, Nadir sat on the floor. "Why? He was carrying out her work exactly as she instructed."

"He carried it out too perfectly," Erik sighed. "He'd gotten a foreign education. He brought back more than a proper English accent and school tie. He brought the ideas of democracy, politics, governments that meted out laws and justice without blood."

"_Allah._ But, the daughter," he managed in a whisper. "You…you didn't kill _her_ did you?" No one was sure of what the small thing on the floor was. What could have been a toddler's corpse was so mangled it no longer looked human.

Erik's eyes were molten. "Kazakhstan."

"Thank you," Nadir breathed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his face. "Thank you." Leaning his back against the mirror's frame, he wept.

"I couldn't kill her." Erik spread his hands, lifting them up to heaven. "There was enough blood already. I took her and gave her to one of the maids. I made her swear to never bring her back to Persia."

Nadir slumped against the glass, feeling drained by the truth of the Prince's betrayal at the hands of the Khanum, and cleansed by the news that his daughter lived safe from the woman's grasp. "Merciful Allah."

Erik made a sound, and Nadir turned his head to look at the man. Erik drifted to his knees before the mirrors. His strange eyes fixed on the glass, Nadir could see the tears pouring out from under the mask, bathing Erik's chin.

Nadir crawled to him. He sat a hand on his slim shoulder.

"I—I have a grandson," he choked out. "A sweet, innocent child." He shook his head side to side. "I couldn't kill her, I couldn't kill…."

Nadir clasp Erik's shoulder tighter. "You didn't do it, Erik! You saved her. If it had been anyone else they would have killed her, too. You know that."

Erik started into the mirror. "How can I face that boy?"

Nadir gave him a shake. "It's over now. She won't make you do those things anymore. The past is gone. Let it go."

Erik sat on the floor. "Should I?

"Yes. Go on with the life you should have had. You're going to have a wife to take care of, and a family that will come to you for help. Do the things you always wished you could do." He watched Erik's masked image in the glass. Nadir pointed towards his heart. "Make peace inside here. Love will help."

Erik's long fingers fumbled for his handkerchief. He shuffled away from Nadir. "Don't look, daroga."

Nadir cast a disbelieving eye around the chamber. "Erik, we are in the center of mirrors…."

"Don't look!"

Nadir flung up a hand. "We are in the center of mirrors!"

"Don't…."

Nadir tsked and scrambled to his feet, stomping out of the chamber. "I think you're getting senile."

He had just gotten to the parlor and was searching for Erik's cognac decanter when one of the little sets of alarm bells began to chime.


	55. Lost

**Chapter Fifty-three: Lost**

Nadir's head whipped around so quickly, he nearly stumbled. Erik was still in the catoptric chamber, probably with his mask off. As the tinkling began again, Nadir turned resolutely to the hall. "Hang that nonsense of no nose," he muttered. He opened his mouth to call out and was nearly flattened against the wall as Erik came though the panel.

Hands, lifted, Erik quickly retied the lengths of ribbon that kept his mask on. "Someone's coming down the first corridor." He threw open his front door. The boat sat on the opposite side of the lake, calmly awaiting its next occupant.

"Mirielle?" Nadir asked.

Erik shook his head, a quick, decisive movement. "She won't be back till this afternoon she said." He stood in the doorway and slapped the door frame with the flat of his hand. "I'm going back through the chamber. You stay here, daroga, in case they get this far."

Nadir watched as Erik moved swiftly down the hall. There was a movement and the panel swung closed as if it had never existed. Suppressing a wave of goose bumps at the thought that room was just on the other side of the walls, Nadir looked back towards the doorway.

He lifted a hand. "The boat is on the other side," he said to himself. "What am I supposed to do? Yell 'go back or I'll have to swim over there and make you'?" He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door's frame.

The bells tinkled again. As the sound drifted off to silence, Nadir heard a faint whispering from the other side of the lake. The sounds bounced around the vault over the water. An eerie keening drifted from the corridor. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

* * *

Erik moved swiftly through the corridors. Whoever it was, they had a small lantern in their hand. The glow of it swung back and forth. The height of the glow told him whoever his visitor was, they were short in stature. Surely one of the ballet rats hadn't managed this feat.

He caught up to the intruder because the girl paused to blow her nose. Her breathes came in sobs as she turned once again back towards the lake. _What in the world?_ He kept a careful distance from her and quietly spoke. "Are you lost child?"

She let out a startled gasp and whirled in a circle, the lantern raised as if to ward him off. "Who is there?"

He recognized her as she turned. It was the chorus girl from this afternoon. "You must go back, little one. The ghost does not like uninvited guests."

"There's no ghost!" she scoffed. "I left him a note, and a little box of chocolates like Jammes said, but he never came to talk to me."

Erik splayed a hand over the bricks and stood considering the girl. "She told you to leave a box of chocolates?"

Another sniff. "She said he'd come—he ate the chocolates! He didn't even read my note," she mourned.

Erik stifled a scathing snort. "Jammes probably ate the chocolates. Why have you been hoping to meet the ghost?" He waited while she blew her nose again.

"I need help."

"Of what kind?"

"They say he helps you if you ask nicely."

"Yes, and Pere Noel leaves you presents if you are good. What sort of help could a ghost give you?"

"I—I'm in trouble with the managers."

Erik rolled his eyes. "That baritone is the cause." He hazarded a glance at her. Her mouth hung agape.

"Is that why? Why did they yell at me!" she sputtered.

"Because they will have to keep him on until _Aida_ finishes, and you are paid less. Am I correct?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"You are supposed to scorn him?"

"I did. It was awful. He looked at me, and I could just see his heart breaking in his dark eyes." She made a noise that was half hiccup and half sob. "I'm going to drown myself in lake. If I can find it."

Erik pushed off of the wall. "Now, now. Let's not do anything we will all regret. I'm sure your baritone would welcome you back with open arms."

"But the managers," she wailed.

"Leave them to me," he said in a commanding tone. "What is your name?"

"Denise Martin."

"Turn back, Mademoiselle. The cellars are fraught with nooks that can capture the unwary. I'll have a talk with the managers."

"You will?"

She was edging towards his voice. Erik backed away, pushing open one of the trapped doors that the girl must have accidently opened in her wanderings. She stepped into the adjoining corridor. "I'm not sure where I am," she said timorously.

He stepped behind her and grasped the lantern. "Do not turn," he warned. "Only walk where I shine the light, Denise."

She proceeded obediently until he reached over her shoulder and offered the lamp back to her. He pulled a switch in the dark, and a door swung open before them. "Tell Jammes she owes me chocolates," he teased.

She entered the corridor under the roots of the flytower. Erik waited a moment until he was sure she wasn't coming back. He went back to the switch in the wall and pulled the lever out, sealing that section of corridor. One lost soprano was enough.

* * *

Nadir was sitting in the parlor, looking out the window when Erik came back through the house.

They carried the mattress in and began putting together the bed while Erik told of his visitor. Nadir looked at the frame. "Did you get sheets for this?"

Erik straightened. "No." He fished his pocket watch out of his pocket. "We'd better stop here. We can finish after I make a trip up for the sheets. Where is my mind?" He murmured.

The Persian looked over his companion. "She surprised you, didn't she?"

"Who? You mean the soprano?"

"Yes."

He heaved a gusting sigh. "For the life of me, I can't see how she got passed the traps in the corridor."

Nadir walked into the parlor, shrugging on his jacket. "I hope you find out. It could be dangerous having uninvited guests."

"Dangerous for them," Erik mused. "She might have gotten stuck somewhere."

"If she had run into the rat catcher, the entire building might have heard her screaming."

Erik stuck an arm through his jacket sleeve. "Something else I'd get blamed for."

"How is Mirielle supposed to get back?"

Erik's hands stopped in mid-motion. "I—we—I thought…."

Nadir raised his eyes heavenward. "Allah! Protect and preserve the unwary!"

Erik's masked countenance dipped coyly. "I forgot."

"Come. Let's leave a note in the box. I think Mirielle has had enough adventures in the opera to know to await you there."

"I have another problem. The children know I live in Paris. Not that I live _under _it."

Nadir regarded him thoughtfully. "That is a problem."

* * *

Mirielle ran up the steps to her old apartment and gave a cursory knock before pushing open the door a crack. "Anyone home?"

Ursulé was sitting on the sofa. "Mirielle! Come in. Have you decided upon a dress?"

"Yes. I went back to the shop that Erik sent me to."

"Oh, how romantic."

"More practical, I think. The Ouvard ladies have made a dress for me once, and did such a wonderful job. I thought it only fair to put more work their way."

"What about your trousseau?"

Mirielle looked at her friend. "I didn't think of anything I really need."

"Nonsense!" Ursulé scolded. "Don't you want a nice dress or two? And what about a night gown for that special night?"

"I hadn't bought anything for _that_ night."

"You should shop again tomorrow. Besides, Nadir said that he found the invitations and sent telegrams to them as they are spread out all over Europe. He's hoping that they will be courteous enough to reply quickly."

* * *

At the four corners of the continents, small envelopes were placed in feminine hands. After the flap was unsealed and the contents read, and sometimes re-read, one might hear the startled gasps, the girlish laughter, and the flutter of paper as it floated to the floor in unison with the thuds produced by several fainting ladies. 


	56. Light as A Feather

**A/N: Mominator! Cyber cookies for you, you are worried about the traps? Never fear! Thornwitch: I was referring to little Henri who will be Erik's grandson through Mirielle in the last chapter.   
**

**Chapter Fifty-four: Light as A Feather**

Erik sat in the box, listening to the rhythm of the music. The Pharaoh, a magnificent bass, was starting to slow. Radames was picking up the tempo of his lines to make them come out agreeably with the score.

The conductor halted the music, the voices on stage died quickly. One of the stage mangers came out with a copy of the libretto and conferred with the conductor. The Pharaoh, sat down on one of the props and wiped his face with a hand. The remainder of the chorus of Egyptians and the Ethiopian prisoners stood waiting.

"Call a break," Erik groused. "The man is fatigued, but professional enough to do well tonight."

He pulled out his watch and glanced at the time. Mirielle had not come back yet. He and Nadir had had the time to make a quick trip to the shops. The bed was set up, the sheets installed, tops turned back in a beckoning slash of purple over the edge of the spread, and the coffin had been pushed into the catoptric chamber. Nadir had recommended the matching curtains, which gave Erik pause, until Nadir explain that they could be hung from above the headboard to festoon the bed rather than the black ones he had.

As he sat, resting his chin on his fist, an idea stole into his consciousness. He stood and crossed to the wall next to the pillar, gazing over the chorus as they stood. Denise Martin was standing in a small cluster of women dressed in the garb of priestesses. Comparing her to the other women, she was a small, willowy creature.

Perhaps the reason the traps had not stopped her progress was because she had not been heavy enough to trip them. His mind whirling, he sat down to await Mirielle.

* * *

The bell above the door rang as Mirielle closed it. Olivier Aubriot was in his office according to the new store clerk. Mirielle tapped on the door and waited.

Olivier smiled when he saw her. "How was your trip?"

"It was wonderful. I came by to pick up my last wages. I am so sorry to leave you so suddenly, but my fiancé is anxious. We've settled on the sixth for the wedding."

"Good heavens." Olivier turned to look at the calendar. "That doesn't give you much time to plan does it? What about guests? Will they have time to travel?"

"I think so. It's going to be a rather small affair, just a few friends and my daughters with their husbands."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Monsieur Vachon doesn't have many—" she paused to consider her choice of words. "Acquaintances."

Olivier leaned in close to her. "Is that—his—name?"

Mirielle blinked. "Yes."

"Are you going to be Madame Opera Ghost?"

"I shall be Madame Vachon," she announced proudly.

Olivier returned the smile. "Avail yourself of anything in the store, Mirielle. Consider it a wedding gift from Jeanette and me."

"I couldn't do that," she protested.

"Nonsense. You must need more clothing than just your gown. Jeanette would be thrilled that," he dropped his voice, "a certain gentleman's wife was seen in one of our creations."

Mirielle brought a hand to her cheek. "That is very generous." She paused before his office door. "Would you like to attend the wedding?"

* * *

Erik prowled along the upper galleries, avoiding the staff as he awaited Mirielle. When he heard one of the front doors opening, he glanced around the corner to see her approaching the stairs. He met her at the box.

"Hello," she said cheerily.

"You have no packages. Did you not get a chance to visit the shops?"

"I did. I'm just having most of it dropped off at the apartment. I wasn't sure what would happen if I sent it here."

"Hmm. Nadir and I were just talking about that today. I haven't shown you a safe way to get to the house."

"Safe?"

"Remember how you got locked in the corridors? That might happen again, I'm afraid."

"Why? I thought that was just for the benefit of La chance?"

"It was, but I had an unexpected visitor."

She stilled. "Not the sewers."

"No. She didn't get that far."

Mirielle's brows arched. "She?"

"Yes." He took hold of her elbow and guided her close to the front of the box. "The little priestess, just between the tall red-head and that brunette valkyrie."

"Valkyrie?"

"Tall, statuesque creature, with the enormous," he paused, "vocal range."

Mirielle smirked. "Is that what you call those?"

Erik cleared his throat. "The little soprano was on her way down, pierced by cupid's dart, and hoping to extinguish the flame of life and love in the lake."

"Goodness!" She backed away from the edge of the box. "Why?"

"Two managers, a love-struck baritone, and an empty box of chocolates. I'll explain it to you on the way home."

* * *

Erik walked behind Mirielle. As she crossed the pressure plate, he reached and snared her arm, drawing her back away from it. The spot in the corridor's wall swung open before them. "That one tripped," he mused.

Mirielle poked at the plate with her toe. "Perhaps I'm too heavy." She set one foot upon it, but the plate depressed and the false wall opened again.

Erik squatted down before the plate, a fingertip running along the edge. "I don't think anything lodged in it to keep it from depressing."

Like gears in a clock his thoughts spun, one idea bumping into the next, picking up momentum. He stood and pulled Mirielle into the circle of his arms.

"Erik," she purred.

Stepping back onto the plate, their combined weight caused the wall to swing. He stepped off, pulling Mirielle with him. They stood in the corridor the trap forced them into. "Ah ha!

"Ha?"

"It didn't recoil. Something heavy must have tripped the trap and caused it not to recoil into its original position. Thus, Denise was able to walk down the corridor. She didn't trip the trap."

"Denise? Is that your damsel in distress?"

"Denise Martin. I had to have her name so I could write the managers about her."

"Did you leave them one of your famous notes?"

Erik peered at her in the wan light. "Yes, I did. I don't usually take up every cause, but the child was wandering in the dark."

"Mmmm. That's very kind of you." She smiled.

"She was weeping. What else could I do?"

"I told you you were a soft touch." She poked a finger in his ribs.

He paused, taking in Mirielle's shinning eyes. A warmth infused his face. "If you believe so," he murmured. "Iwasn't always this way." He pulled his fiancé into his embrace.

"I think you just buried it deep in your heart. It's been there all these years, hoping to escape."

"Not escape." He shook his head. "That implies I willingly imprisoned it. I think it was just a timid creature awaiting the light that shines in your eyes."

"That is lovely."

He kissed her forehead. "You are lovely. Come, let's go home."

* * *

Nadir stood before the apartment door, his hat in his hand, listening to the approach of footsteps on the other side. Ursulé smiled brightly as she opened the door.

"I was just dropping by to see how things went today," he said.

"Fine. Mirielle was here for an hour or so. We've arranged to have things delivered here as you suggested."

He stood, shuffling the brim of his hat between his fingers. "Is Mademoiselle Jardaux in?"

"No, I'm afraid she hasn't arrived back from work yet."

"Thank you," he replied, feeling a keen disappointment. "I'll stop by tomorrow then."

He turned away from the door. His hopes of a moment with Catherine dashed. He really should have found out where she worked so that he would know her schedule.

Catherine Jardaux was hoping to get home quickly and get off of her aching feet. Every step made her toes feel as if they were afire. Weaving slowly between other people along the sidewalk, she glimpses a man stepping from her building's front door.

She picked up her pace, but he was walking resolutely and the distance between them was growing. Disappointment made her steps drag. As she watched his dark clad shoulders draw farther away, she burst out, "Monsieur Khan!"

Nadir turned, seeing Catherine standing before her door. The other people on the sidewalk glanced at her as she stood with an apologetic smile upon her face. He tipped his hat to several people and backtracked through the traffic to her door.

"I just stopped by to see you," he began. "I wanted to know if the plans were going all right."

"Fine, I think." She stood for a moment, taking in how handsome he looked. Mirielle was right, his eyes shown like jewels. "I—I just got off work."

"Would you care to go to dinner?"

Catherine clutched her fingers around the top of her lunch pail. "I'm not really dressed."

Nadir felt his smile growing by the second. She lifted a hand to her hair, shyly looking away from him. "Perhaps a light supper?"

Catherine's heart beat picked up, leaving her a little breathless.

"I could come back later, if you'd like to change first," he offered.

"Well. I suppose so. I think Ursulé was going to see her beau this evening anyway."

"Splendid," he replied. "What time shall I call?"

"An hour?"

He tipped his hat. "An hour."

* * *

In a corridor in the bowels of the Opera , a tall man hunched over, surrounded by the glow of his lantern. He squatted carefully. His large hands smoothed over a large sheet of paper. Glancing at his surroundings, he was sure he had gotten lost.

Getting up he turned and prepared to backtrack, counting doors and corners until he recognized some part of the corridor. When he got back to the surface, he'd give Number Four a piece of his mind.

Marcelline Rameau gathered the mail. All of it was bills. What remained of her family had never attempted to write her after the fall of the Commune of Paris. As far and they knew, she should have been deported to New Caledonia with the rest of the survivors.

Tossing the envelopes on her table, she ran water into her kettle and sat it on the stove. Turning up the flames, she watched the colors turn from yellow to blue. She hoped the Opera would burn a bright hellish yellow.

Monsieur Four had said the gas would explode. How much damage it did would depend upon how much of it filled the lower sections of the Opera.

The building was chock full of storage rooms and corridors. Monsieur Four said there were several cellars below the stage. The massive central stage was only a section of the iron framing for the fly tower. They couldn't hope to bring the fly tower itself down, only direct the explosion up though it. The resulting fire should take care of the rest of the building.

There would be bodies. She would be able to see them from the box she sat in. She hoped for one hundred and forty-seven; the number of people who were executed at the wall. For the thousands of others who were imprisoned and deported, the burned out hulk of the Garnier would serve as a reminder.


	57. Distressed Damsels

**A/N: Greetings and welcome. Thank you everyone for taking time to review. it lets me know someone out there gets this raving of mine...:) **

**Chapter Fifty-five: Distressed Damsels**

Firmin Richard sat with his letter opener in his hand. His secretary Remy always opened the arriving mail. With one exception.

The envelope was unremarkable, but the straight slashes of red ink across the field of white reminded him of blood. Was it war once again? With a quick twist of the opener, he threw down the envelope and folded flat the missive.

_Dear Director,_

_I am not familiar with your latest tactic to bring to heel errant employees. Forgive my impertinence as I point out that threatening one member of your chorus with dismissal while the other member of the primary cast is free to repeat his actions sounds like folly._

_Have you any idea what a farce your chastisement of D. Martin has set into motion? I come to the opera for indulgence, not to find intrusive visits thrust upon my person by females who wish to do themselves great harm. _

_Really, Monsieur. I expected a finer sense of gallantry from you than to bully the poor child. Your energies would be more fruitful if you were to approach Patrascu and offer worldly guidance to the fellow including, but not excusive to, the proper civilized actions of a man to court a woman. His might be the actions of the local rubes in his homeland, but in Paris the man should set aside his pitchfork and his sheep and learn some sophistication!_

_Rehearsal at this point is plodding and unnecessary. It not only brought the Pharaoh to his knees, but had me rolling my eyes at our love pierced Romanian's stupidly staring at Mademoiselle Martin. Faugh! Such melodrama would be better staged at the Opera Comique than here!_

_Need I remind you of the articles in our agreement?_

_Signed: Ph. of the O._

Richard's face turned florid, his great beard working as he mouthed the words to himself. By the end of the missive, his hand shook. "Bully?" He launched to his feet and stopped by his office door, glaring at his secretary. "Remy, I'll be backstage if anyone needs me."

* * *

Catherine ran a brush quickly through her hair and secured it at the sides of her temples with combs. Pinching her cheeks, she smiled at her mirror. She locked her apartment door and was back on the street well before her hour was up.

Nadir sat watching people walk along the sidewalks. When Catherine appeared at the door to her building, his heart accelerated. He made his way quickly to her. She stood smiling. He smiled back. He began to slide into uncertainty, until she said, "Hello, again."

"Hello." Pushing aside his worries, he asked, "Do you have a favorite place for dinner?"

"Uhm, no. I don't eat out very often."

"Let me take you to a wonderful little bistro I frequent." He offered her an arm, which she took. "It's just a short walk from here."

Catherine could feel her smile turn to a grimace. "Could we ride?"

He hadn't spent years in the police force to miss the change in her. "Are you tired?"

She nodded, feeling terribly rude. "A hard day on my feet."

"Catherine," he said, pulling her hand into his. "Will you allow me?"

She looked up into his dark eyes. The promise behind them was as deep and mysterious as the exotic land he came from. "Yes," she replied, a trifle breathless.

They arrived at his apartment, where she was ordered off of her feet while Darius whipped something that smelled as divine as the dish Nadir had brought to dinner.

Nadir took off his coat and disappeared leaving Catherine to look about his sitting room. He appeared with sleeves rolled up, carrying a large washstand bowl filled with warm scented water and a towel. "Please. Avail yourself of my water closet and remove your shoes and stockings."

Catherine looked from his gently questioning face to the bowl and back to his eyes. She got to her feet and went to the door he indicated. A little bemused, she knew some cultures wanted you to bath your hands before dinner. As far as she knew, no one bathed their feet.

She returned to the sitting room with shoes in hand to have her feet deposited in warm water while the men sat a small table beside her. She and Nadir dined on Khoreshe Fesenjan that had chicken, walnuts and zucchini, with a salad of cucumbers, rice and creamy Kachee for desert while she blissfully forgot about her feet.

* * *

Finishing a light dinner, Erik retired to his chair before the fireplace. On the table at his elbow was the Paris paper, his slippers sat next to the footstool. Mirielle came out of the kitchen placing a glass of wine beside him with a smile. She curled up at the end of the couch near the table lamp and sat reading.

Erik sighed. Life was good.

When the mantle clock began to chime out the late hour, Mirielle got to her feet and removed his shoes and wine glass. Erik listened to her progress through the house. After a time in the water closet, she appeared in her robe.

"Good night, darling." She placed a kiss on his upturned mask.

Erik folded the newspaper and got to his feet. Turning down the lamps and the sconces, he unbuttoned his vest as he reached his bedroom. He stopped abruptly inside the door.

There, festooned with purple curtains sat the magnificent bed, its sheets turned back, and no Mirielle.

* * *

Nadir and Catherine sat sipping their after dinner coffee. "How are your feet?" he asked.

She wiggled her toes in the water. "Wonderful. What is in the water?"

He smiled, a sly, teasing curve. "If I tell you that, you will know my secret, and I won't have a dinner companion."

She nearly gasped aloud. "Oh." Her cheeks felt warm and she hoped she wasn't' blushing like a school girl. "I wouldn't come to see you just because of my tired feet."

He pouted. Catherine couldn't make her eyes leave his lush lips.

"You must come back to dinner. Darius will be so pleased that he can cook for someone other than me."

"If you insist," she said softly.

"Oh, I do."

* * *

Erik shucked his vest off and tossed it across the small bench that sat at the foot of the bed. Yanking his robe out of the wardrobe, he shrugged it on as he walked the short length of the hall. He tapped lightly at the door to the second bedroom, and pushed it open. Mirielle reclined on a pile of pillows.

"Mirielle? Why are you in this bed?"

She glanced away. "I'm retiring for the evening."

He silently pondered if this was another ritual females indulged in. "I bought a bed for us. Don't you like it?"

"It's beautiful. I told you you have superb taste. It's just that we aren't married yet."

Erik closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his rising temper. "You mean to tell me that because we are not yet married, you will not sleep with me?"

She folded her hands. "It—well it heightens the anticipation."

"I don't want my anticipation heightened!" he exploded.

"It's only for nine more days."

"Nine days. You say that so simply." He prowled through the room with hands on his hips. "Nine days of watching you sashay by in your gown. Nine days of smelling your perfume. Nine days of sleeping in cold sheets."

She had the grace to look chastised. "Would you like a hot water bottle to warm you up?"

"Erik doesn't want a water bottle," he grumbled. He wanted a warm, soft Mirielle. He glanced at her soft features. "I think I understand."

She smiled brightly. "Thank you, Erik."

He nodded slowly. "Certainly." He turned and headed for the door. "Would it bother you if I played the organ for a while?"

"No."

He stepped into the hall. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"You'll let me know."

"Of course."

He stood on the threshold. "I'll say goodnight then." He pulled the door slowly closed.

The hall seemed to lengthen before his eyes. What was a few short steps now drew out to a painful distance. He entered his room and closed the door. "Erik doesn't want a water bottle." He sat down before the organ and began to play.

* * *

Erik pried his eyes open reluctantly. From outside of the bedroom wafted the fortifying scent of coffee and warm pastries. He shoved his feet clumsily into his slippers and smoothed his hair away from his face with a hand. Shuffling through the parlor he reached the kitchen.

Mirielle smiled brightly. "Good morning. Sit down and let me pour you some coffee."

"Dressed to go out, I see." He must have slept the sleep of the dead, for he had heard none of her movements about the house.

"Yes. Nadir and I are to check on the arrangements at the church."

"Excellent." He took a bit of a croissant and chewed watching her move through the kitchen in a swirl of skirt. The sooner the church was prepared, the sooner he would have Mirielle to snuggle up to. "Eight days," he mused.

"What was that?" she asked as she pinned on her hat.

"Uh—I said 'out today'," he recovered. "I'll be out today as well."

He walked her to the door and stood while she brushed a kiss to his masked cheek.


	58. Duties of a Ghost

**Chapter Fifty-six: Duties of a Ghost**

Eight Days. It became a mantra that keep weaving in and out of his thoughts.

Mirielle had abandoned him for the church, leaving him to languish in the house alone.

Alone. It wasn't such a sorrowful thing anymore. It had shrunk to a few quiet hours bracketed by Mirielle's voice and her humor.

He looked down at the lake, taking in the reflection of the black silk that covered his face. His eyes reflected a soft almost otherworldly glow. Lifting the lantern he held onto a hook at the stern of the boat, he stepped in and pushed the craft out into the lake. With nothing else on his plate, he really should exercise his duties as the Opera Ghost.

* * *

Dragos Patrascu walked unhurriedly through the halls towards his dressing room. Something tapped the brim of his hat and he lifted the hat and shook it, looking up into the maze of catwalks above him. He sat the hat back upon his head and walked on.

Erik knelt on the catwalk, an arm draped over the edge in despondency. His carefully penned note fluttered to the floor while Patrascu walked on. He got to his feet and started downward.

Denise Martin stepped out of the dressing room. Seeing Dragos coming towards her, she turned and slid back inside the door. With her back to it, she silently listened. When sounds of passing footsteps died down, she rested a hand on the door knob. Before she could open it, a tentative tapping sounded.

She opened it slowly, peeking through the crack. "Go away," she whispered. "The managers are watching!"

Dragos Patrascu stood looking abashed; his dark gaze flitted over her features. "Denise?"

"Not now. The managers," she hissed.

Erik watched the dejected droop that settled upon the man's shoulders. With two fingers he grasped the note he had written and flung it at the man. It tapped him neatly upon the ear and dropped upon his shoulder.

Patrascu flinched and brushed a hand to his ear. Turning away from Denise's door, he trudged on towards his own dressing room.

Erik stood watching the envelope flitter to the floorboards. Getting the besotted Slav's attention was going to take longer than he had expected.

* * *

Mirielle and Nadir were ushered into the priest's office. The room was simply decorated. A large bookcase covered one wall, filled from top to bottom with leather-bound books of various sizes, all protected by the glass doors that closed over them.

The man behind the desk stood, offering a hand to Nadir. "I am Father Declassé. Please be seated." He paused until the couple sat down. "Let me be the first to congratulate you."

Nadir looked the fellow over, noting his silvered hair and the beneficent smile of a man accustomed to dealing with his flock of parishioners. "I'm not the groom," he explained.

"Oh?" The priest folded his hands upon the desk.

"My fiancé is a very private person, Father," Mirielle explained. "My friend and I are going to make all the arrangements for the nuptials.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," the priest replied. "I like to make the acquaintance of all the couples who come here to the church to celebrate their union before God."

"You'll understand when you meet Monsieur Vachon," Mirielle informed him. "He has a problem."

"Is he shy?"

"No."

"Is he ill?"

Mirielle shot a glance at Nadir who looked to be clamping his lips shut. "No", she replied.

"Well, I don't see why he couldn't stop by to have a little chat with me before the wedding. I can keep it very private."

"It would definitely have to be private," Nadir muttered.

"Excuse me, Monsieur?" Father Declassé asked.

"The man is painfully private, Father," Nadir replied. "Is it really necessary?"

Mirielle sat forward. "I understand you probably give a little talk to young couples starting their lives together. But Monsieur Vachon and I are passed that time in our lives. I have two grown daughters and a grandchild coming to the ceremony."

"Good Catholic daughters," Nadir added.

The priest nodded reluctantly. "Very well. Do you know the grooms preferences for the nuptials?"

"Yes," Mirielle replied. "Within eight days."

* * *

Erik groaned as once again his flawless delivery of the note was fumbled by Patrascu. As the traffic around him thinned, he stepped out of the shadows and snatched up his note. Stuffing it into his pocket he wove determinedly towards the steps to the first cellar. It was nearly time for Mirielle to arrive. If he didn't get the baritone's attention soon, he'd have to come back after the performance.

Gliding through the spaces between rooms, Erik arrived near the little storeroom that sat next to Christine's dressing room. He waited until he glimpsed Patrascu in the mirror. He stood back in the shadows and pitched his voice into the room. "We meet at last, Monsieur. Your little Mademoiselle came for advice from me."

Patrascu leaned forward, searching the mirror for the reflection of who spoke. "Who is there?"

"A concerned member of the community," Erik said evenly. His voice dropped. "The Managers are hounding Denise. They think she has you besotted and it is ruining your performances." He paused as Patrascu peered into the corners of the room. "You will not find me. Do not waste this small time we have in worrying about my appearance. Be more concerned about yours."

Patrascu got to his feet. "I sing! They have nothing to complain about."

"Oh, but they do," Erik replied. "Are you aware your eyes constantly stray to Mademoiselle Martin rather than to Radames or the Pharaoh?"

Patrascu opened his mouth, but appeared to be considering his words.

"Look, young man. She's a lovely girl, and I think she's taken an interest in you as well…"

"She has?"

Dragos Patrascu was a sturdily built man, of the same height as Erik. With a boyish look of hope on his face he appeared poised to run out of the door and seek Denise.

"Don't interrupt," Erik warned. "Our time is short. You must stop this nonsense at once or Denise will be fired."

Patrascu's broad shoulders sank again. "What am I to do?"

"Your job. Sing. Sing tonight as you never have before. Looking at the audience, mind you," Erik added sternly. "When the performance is over, pick up one of the bouquets from the stage and pull out a rose. Deliver it to Denise, telling her you sang for her tonight."

"Then what?"

"Then the hardest part shall be over. She'll say something, and you will reply. It goes back and forth like that for a while. If you can remember, ask her to dinner."

Erik backed away from the wall, and turned down the corridor.

* * *

Firman Richard sat congratulating himself.

His wayward baritone and the little soprano priestess performed perfectly this evening. Patrascu had kept his eyes riveted upon the other principle players. His vocals sounded inspired rather than distracted.

He hated to get into the casts personal lives, but it seemed the Romanian had understood fully what he'd told him.

"Much better."

"Yes, he was." Firman turned with a smile that froze upon his face. Sitting a chair away from his in the box was the dark clad figure he had seen for a split second in the mirror not long ago.

The hair on his nape lifted as the lights from the stage reflected like heat lightning over the surface of amber eyes. They were all he could make out of the man's features.

On the stage, the curtain rose once again. The auditorium filled with applause and shouts as the cast came out to take their bows. In the shifting light, Firman saw those golden eyes disappear and knew the ghost was gone.

* * *

Denise Martin had found the note in the dressing room. As the other woman changed out of their costumes, she left the room and made her way back to the stage. Tucking the sides of her voluminous gown under her legs, she sat upon one of the stone props. Something soft brushed her arm.

Dragos stood at the end of the stone, wearing his costume as well. Lying beside her was a white rose, looking luminous as it lay upon the grey colored plaster.

She felt flushed, the heat rising in her face. She pulled her hands in to her lap and tried to calm herself. Hoping her smile didn't look foolish, she said, "You sang very well tonight." When he said nothing, she beat down the urge to squirm. Instead she lifted a hand to her hair, pushing the tail of it off of her shoulder.

Dragos' dark eyes followed her gesture. It made her heart leap up into her throat. He had such soulful eyes.

He bent and lifted the rose, sitting down a small distance from her. He offered it to her. "I sang for you."

"You did?" she blurted. She felt as if she wished to leap to her feet and dance.

"I did." His brows drew down and his voice dropped. "It was never my intention to get you in trouble with the Managers."

His brief show of anger made him look so masculine it arrested her breathing. "I know that," she said lightly.

They sat in silence, glancing at one another. She twirled the rose in her fingers.

Dragos looked about the stage, and then back at her. "Would you like to have dinner?"

"It's late." Denise saw his resigned look. "Tomorrow, perhaps?"

He nodded. "Tomorrow."

She slid to her feet. "I have to change. I walk home with the other ladies."

He stood, looming large near her. "Can I walk you home?"

Erik stood on the catwalk listening. Denise's voice was light and soft as the couple left the stage walking a careful distance from one another, but matching strides so that one was not left behind.

* * *

He tapped lightly at the door to Mirielle's room. When he heard her voice, he turned the knob and stepped inside. "In bed already?"

"I just thought I'd relax and snuggle up in the warmth."

He came and sat on the end of the bed. "I could warm you up."

Mirielle grinned.

He rested a hand on her leg. "I'll bring you a hot water bottle."

Her face went blank for a moment, and then her eyebrows climbed. "You devil."

"Yes," he grinned. "I am, aren't I?" He spread a hand over the blanket. "It heightens the anticipation, you know." His fingers crawled over the soft surface, then balled up, tugging the blanket towards him.

"What _are _you doing?"

"Look," he said. Getting up, he crawled up the length of the bed and stretched out next to her. "Look." His finger traced a circle over her shoulder. "Don't worry; I'll take care of that spot for you." He placed a kiss upon her shoulder.

Mirielle turned her head, looking at the spot her pointed to. "What was that?"

"A cold spot. I warmed it up for you."

"If it's cold, it is just because you pulled the blanket off of it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said as he nuzzled her neck. "Hmm. This appears to be cold as well."

Mirielle giggled, squirming as he placed small, rapid kisses to her neck. "You fox."

"At your service, Madame." He swept an arm above them in a mock salute. Dropping the arm to her waist, he settled his head near her shoulder. "Talk to me. I want to hear your voice."

"Well. My day was very busy. I went to the church with Nadir…"

Erik listened to the air move in her lungs once her voice had stopped. As she fell deeper asleep, her hands relaxed. He put her book on the bedside table and tucked the blankets around her. Kissing her softly upon the cheek, he turned down the sconce and closed her door.


	59. The Curtain Rises

**Chapter Fifty-seven: The Curtain Rises**

Mathurin La Chance sat at a table, his foot tapping in irritation as he scanned people along the street. He saw Zacharie de Brie's bowler hat weaving its way through the foot traffic. de Brie bolted for the door and blew in on a gust of wind.

"Anything yet?" La Chance asked.

Zacharie removed his bowler and smoothed his hair. "Nothing. I left a note for Madame Montalais in her post box."

La Chance pushed his coffee cup aside and bunched his hands together on the table top. "Tonight is the final performance. What if we can't warn her?"

Zacharie crossed his arms on the tabletop. "I don't know what to do other than attend the opera and wait it out in box five."

"I suppose that's all we've got left unless we find that woman."

de Brie grinned. "Mirielle. Be nice to her."

"I will," La Chance groused. "Aren't I trying to keep her alive?"

"I hope this is for nothing," Zacharie replied. "I hope this is just some stunt by that Medium you visited. If it isn't, there will be over two thousand people in jeopardy tonight.."

"I just…" La Chance pulled his cup back. The coffee was cold. "I just had the most intense feeling when Solange Claretie spoke. It was like looking at a book and suddenly knowing the ending."

"Maybe it is because you keep talking about it, but I have a similar feeling."

"Can you get me in?"

Zacharie brushed his hair from the top of his glasses. "That is another obstacle."

La Chance wiped a hand over his face in irritation.

"But I have an idea," Zacharie added.

"What?"

"I don't think the Managers could toss you out if your mother bought tickets to the opera." He forestalled La Chance's zeal with an upraised hand. "You might be putting her in harm's way as well."

"You're right," La chance murmured. "But we shall all have to take the chance."

* * *

Nadir and Mirielle sat in her old apartment, looking over the stack of letters and telegrams she had received.

"At least fourteen of the former students have replied," Nadir said.

"Oh, how nice. Won't Erik be surprised?"

"He certainly will. It appears several of the ladies will be bringing someone with them."

"Husbands?" Mirielle asked.

"No, bodyguards."

Mirielle sat back, the kitchen chair she perched on creaked. "Bodyguards?"

"Yes," Nadir replied with a grin. "Imperial security."

"Goodness." She rose to her feet to lift the steaming kettle from the stove. "Should we order additional food for the reception?"

"I think not. Cake will be fine. I can't see many of these people lingering too long after the ceremony. And I certainly hope none of the guards stray towards the champagne. There are a few of the ladies who represent countries that don't look kindly upon the others."

She made a clucking sound. "Erik will not put up with such nonsense."

Nadir accepted the teacup she offered with a nod. "Not if he truly is going to bring the lasso."

"The what?"

Nadir looked into Mirielle's questioning gaze. "I thought Erik told you about the Punjab lasso."

She reached for the small pot of cream. "While we're alone, why don't you tell me?"

* * *

There was a scrabbling sound echoing in the corridor. Monsieur Number Five crouched down, a hand against the wall and listened. Nothing. Nothing. As he stood, her hear it again. Stock still, he could hear his heartbeat, his blood making a whooshing sound in his ears. He waited so long for another sound, his ears began to ring.

"Merde!" he swore viciously. And then the sound again, a light scratching noise along the wall. It bounced around him. He turned to peer down the corridor from which he had come, only to hear the sound behind him. Hastily he lifted the cover of his lantern and blew out the flame. Poised, he listened as the scratching came again.

His mind must be going, he thought. Or was that a faint light? It traveled at a height even with his shoulder. Starting as a faint glow, it turned more orange, growing in size.

He fumbled in his pocket. His fingers traced over the matches, the map, and curled around the knife. Setting down the lantern, he drew out the knife and opened it.

There was a tinny sound, like the squeak of a metal handle. It came closer as the orange ball of light traveled, leaving no trace of light along the sides of the corridor. With a steady rhythm, the squeak came closer, the ball loomed larger.

He began to discern features; a bulbous nose, bespeckled eyes. "_Palsembleu_!" It was _someone _approaching. Not a very impressive someone either. Monsieur Five pressed back against the wall.

As the face drew nearer, the eyes shifted towards him. "Be still!" The thick lips moved emitting a hissing. "The Rat Catcher passes!"

Monsieur Five pressed back against the wall, eyeing the man as he shuffled passed. Blinking in the dark left behind the other man; Monsieur Five pocketed his knife and searched for a match.

The match flared, sulfurous fumes filling his nose. Temporarily blinded, he looked down at something bumping his shin. "Ra….!"

* * *

"Aaaaattsssss…."

Erik spun on his heel, listening to the dying call from down the corridors. Head cocked to one side, he turned and began walking back towards the passage to the fifth cellar. Coming to a T intersection, he heard the pounding of footsteps on the other side of the wall. Taking two great strides, he landed on the pressure plate. The false wall pirouetted like a petal in the wind, presenting its edge to the man running on the other side.

Monsieur Five slammed into the brick and toppled onto his back like a felled oak.

Erik peered around the edge, looking over the giant laying sprawled on the other side. "At least it isn't another soprano," he mused.

He bent over the man. Whoever he was, he was going to sport a bruise the size of a goose's egg on his forehead. Erik leaned over and examined the man's pockets. From one he withdrew a crumpled square of paper. He straightened the paper as he stepped back into the other corridor, bringing it to one of the gas lamps. "What have we here?"

* * *

"Percival."

dit LaFougère started and turned towards the voice. "Bon dieu, Erik. What do you want?" He glanced along the shadowed staircase. Two amber eyes gazed steadily back at him.

"I believe we have a problem."

A slip of paper appeared to float towards him. No matter how many times he met up with the Ghost, it still caused the hair on his neck to lift when Erik pulled one of these tricks.

Percival snatched the piece of paper. "What's this, your grocery list?" He snickered. "The little woman has you shopping now?" His smile died upon his lips.

Erik stood, a marionette lifted by unseen strings. Beside him lay a man on the stairs. "Will you help me secure him somewhere?"

Percival glanced at the map. "The gas room." As the amber eyes tilted in amusement, Percival shrugged. "He was on his way there anyway."

Louis Le Blanc felt as though his skull was split. Pain radiated along his jaw and centered somewhere above his nose. He tried to raise a hand, but found it kept stopping, snagged on something.

As his eyes cleared, he saw what looked like pipes running along the wall. His hand was manacled to them. He pulled his wrist and twisted against the chains, but they looked to strong to break.

"I'd advise against that." The voice was low and smooth. it held an almost friendly tone.

"Let me go!" Le Blanc spat, and regretted it instantly as a blinding pain lanced through his temples.

"That will not be possible."

A man appeared at the fringes of his vision, swimming drunkenly. Or was that his own eyes betraying him. "Wha…?"

"I am Inspector dit LaFougère. What are you doing down here?"

"Lost." Le Blanc replied.

"Not if you have a map," the Inspector retorted. "Speak up!"

Le Blanc winced. "Go to…."

A tsking came from his other side. "None of that." The friendly voice again, so serene and reasonable. Le Blanc hoped he could squirm his way out of this.

"Lost is all."

Someone kicked his foot. "How's your head."

He would have screamed but he already knew how much talking hurt. He thought he might be going blind, for things before him turned white. He blinked a number of times and saw the crumpled map. A finger pointed to the top.

"What is number five?" the reasonable voice asked. "Is that a date or a time?"

Monsieur Five clamped his mouth shut and stared ahead.

"Such loyalty," the Inspector said. "Must not be thieves. They'd just snatch something and be gone." He paused. "And then, there is the map to the gas mains."

His foot was kicked again. Le Blanc pulled his leg away. A hand fisted in his hair. "Start singing, little bird."

Le Blanc thought he might be sick. He screwed his eyes shut.

The reasonable voice spoke again. "He'll sing when he sees I brought him a friend."

Le Blanc felt something land on his stomach. Opening his eyes, he saw the rat.

* * *

Mirielle had just unpinned her hat and was reaching to hang it on the hall tree when a howl echoed over the lake.

"Goodness! Erik what are you doing now?"


	60. Surprising Women

**Chapter Fifty-eight: Surprising Women**

Mirielle hung up her coat and walked to the table beside Erik's chair seeing a note. Atop the square of white perched a tiny bronze grasshopper.

_Care to take in an opera? I have my own box._

"Oh," she smiled remembering her very first evening with Erik. She'd been nervous. He'd been gallant, if not a little wistful when he spoke. Her smiled widened, giddy as a schoolgirl.

She'd been hoping for this. Although that scream a moment ago might mean Erik was up to something.

* * *

The man chained to the gas pipes writhed and flopped, kicking and swearing the entire time. Percival shot a glance at Erik. "Doesn't seem to care for rats."

Monsieur Five gasped for breath as the creature finally departed his person. For a moment he lay, feeling the sweat on his top lip and the white lance of pain knifing his skull. "I'm not telling you anything…"

"Ah, ah, ah," the nice voice chastised.

Somewhere at the fringes of his bleary vision, two figures stirred. Each were tall and wrapped in black, although one wore a hat, he couldn't make out any features on either of their faces. One moved, pulling out a golden object.

"I must be home soon; I have plans for the evening." The voice was punctuated by a snapping sound. "We need to be quick about this."

"I agree. In two hours the patrons will start arriving." The hat turned. "Would you care to use your expertise on this one?"

"I don't do that anymore," the voice replied, sounding tired. "But, if you think it is important?"

"Yes, I do. He protests he won't talk." There was a wicked snicker. "Make him sing for me."

The other figure swam closer. "Young man, explain this to us." The white note danced in front of Number Five's face. "I do not wish to hurt you any more than you already are, but my fiancée is waiting for me and there is a final performance I have promised her."

Five clamped his mouth shut. This must be one of those snobby aristocrats that Marceline had warned them about; another of those pretentious puppets for the bourgeoisie that were sucking the life out of the working class of France. He screwed his eyes closed and pursed his lips. He'd give his life as his brothers had. Let these fops do their worst.

There was a sound, and he slid one eye open. The figure loomed closer. He could make out a white collar and a cravat the color of old blood. A long fingered hand slid into a pocket of the dark coat, starkly pale and spidery in its movements.

And then he heard the squeak. The surface of the pocket shifted. Cold sweat coated his brow and made his shirt stick to his chest. He leaned back against the gas pipes, away from the thing that fought to free itself from the pocket.

"Do you know anything about black rats?"

Five stared at the pocket. The squeaks became louder.

"They carry infections that are so vile, even our rat catcher avoids them. He tells us to stay away from the drains. They _love_ the drains you know."

Something touched his trouser leg. Five kicked at it, moving frantically.

"Down in the dark, their tails slimy, their claws mired in the filth of all of Paris."

Another tug at his ankle made Five kick harder. His head forgotten, he pulled away from the voice. The squeaks turned into an evil raucous. Something attached itself to his shin.

He screamed in earnest this time. The rat writhed on his shin, worming its way under his pants and onto his sock.

"They like the soft parts…"

"Five!" He howled. "I'm Monsieur Five! I was to find the gas mains."

"If you are five, how many others are there?"

"I don't know," he whimpered. "Get it off of me, I beg you!"

"How many…?"

"Three was blown up. They wanted to use a bomb. Then Four came up with the idea of the gas." His leg felt as if someone had it in a vice. "For the love of God," he begged.

Erik released the man's shin. Percival stood, staring darkly at their prisoner. "I'm going to call for a squad. I'll post them down here as soon as they arrive."

"Very well. I'll be in my box if you need me." Erik offered.

"Thank you," Percival replied sincerely.

Erik threw his voice, filling the corners of the room with angry squeaks. Monsieur Five cowered against the pipes.

* * *

He grasped the oars and began to pull the boat, slicing through the inky water. Half way to the house, he stopped and gazed at the soft, warm lights in the windows.

His protective cavern had been turned into a fairy tale. A gas explosion might have been contained on the levels above. A larger one would bring the rubble downward, tons of broken brick and marble would have sealed this place up. No one would ever have found him, or Mirielle.

The certainty of death made his blood run cold. Not his own, but hers. She had so much to live for. To keep her here was wrong. She belonged to the world above.

His hands shook on the oars. He coughed to clear his constricted throat. _How close we come_, he thought. _Every day a gift_. Words floated from his lips, susurrus, reverent. He thanked a God he had almost forgotten.

* * *

Mirielle had just stepped into the tub when she heard the front door swing open and Erik humming as he walked about the house.

"Dearest girl, are you decent?" He tapped on the door.

"Of course."

"You rogue," he growled through the door. "I can hear you smiling."

Mirielle saw her wicked reflection in the mirror. "Just teasing my fiancé," she answered softly. "He does love me, doesn't he?"

There was a silence from the other side of the door. "Yes. He does." The reply was so soft she thought she might have misheard it.

"Darling, are you all right?"

"Fine. We must go out tomorrow. I want to find an apartment."

She rested her arms on the sides of the tub. "Tomorrow?

"Immediately."

She clutched the sponge, the trickle of water sent rings spreading over the surface. "Erik, what has happened?"

She thought he said something about rats. Suddenly the warm water grew chill. She finished her bath as swiftly as she could. Soon was not soon enough to see Erik's masked face.

When she left the water closet, he was gone.

* * *

La chance had just pushed open the door to his apartment when he heard women's voices. Sitting with his Mother was Solange Claretie. She smiled stiffly at him. He nodded, "Mademoiselle, how are you?"

He paused beside his Mother, grasping her hand. "How was your day, Mother?"

"Fine, Mathurin. Mademoiselle Claretie was just telling me about her work."

"Oh?" He hoped the woman hadn't come here to extort money.

Solange's hair was swept up under a large hat. Her dress was stripped silk with rows of dark ribbon. A small beaded reticule rested next to her on the table. She didn't look anything like the Romanesque goddess he'd seen before. In the daylight she looked ordinary and respectable, except her eyes. They were so pale, they looked like silvered mirrors.

Her smile turned warmer. "I just came to remind you about the Opera tonight."

La chance slid a glance at his Mother. "I hadn't forgotten."

"I have the tickets," Solange replied. "Shall we meet there?"

He shouldn't be surprised. She was reputed to be a mind reader. If she was, she must have sensed how relieved he was not to have to endanger his Mother. "What about a light supper? We could take a cab?" He glanced at his Mother. "You'll be all right, won't you?"

She made a clucking sound. "You children go on. I'll just sit with Monsieur Marceau next door for a while. He promised me some of that Bouillabaisse he's always bragging about."

La chance looked at her face, lined by age and pain. "Have a pleasant evening, Maman." He bent and kissed her cheek.

"Oh," she protested. Her smile erased so much of life from her face.

* * *

The cab stopped before the Opera. La Chance assisted Solange down and waited as Zacharie de Brie got out and closed the door. They tapped at the door to the ticket booth, Zacharie showing his press credentials. La Chance flashed his card, his top hat dipped over his face. They were let in, and quickly made their way up the grand escalier.

They turned down one hall, following Zacharie. Solange gripped La Chance's hand. "Number five," she whispered.

"Yes," Zacharie replied. "_His box_. I don't know about you, but the time is too short. We are going to have to contact him."

La chance slowed his steps. "Are you all right?" he asked Solange.

Her pale eyes suddenly cleared. "Yes. We will be fine."

* * *

Erik climbed through the cellars to the base of the pillar to box five. If he didn't compose himself, Mirielle would know something had been wrong today. He had thought talking to her, he could be casual and charming. It all turned to ash in his mouth. The threat of a crushing darkness and her lost in it cause his steps to drag.

When the small platform stopped moving, he heard voices on the other side. Someone was in box five.


	61. Chapter 61

**Chapter Fifty-nine: Act One**

Erik relaxed his fists purposefully, exhaling as he counted to ten and beyond.

Mirielle would be expecting him to fetch her shortly, and instead of composing himself, he'd found his box infested with a nest of busybodies. Faugh! He'd have to roust them out. He leaned a palm upon the column's opening and listened to his squatters.

"We have…twenty minutes before the curtain goes up." A male voice, spoken as through clenched teeth.

Another man questioned, "Is there any way you might see more?"

"I can try," a female voice sighed. "I'm just very upset by this. It's hard to focus--."

The first voice. "Thank you, Solange. Take your time. I appreciate you coming with us."

Us? They were obviously not interested in seeing the performance.

"Did you see anyone's faces? Perhaps if you looked over the patrons below you might recognize them?"

"I remember a woman, in a feathered hat."

Erik cocked his head in thought. Most of the women wore tiaras and feathers to the opera.

"And men in coats of brown. All of them wore brown."

"What could be the significance of the brown?"

There was something familiar about this. Thoughts in Erik's mind kept leaping about, half memory and all very annoying that he couldn't place what his subconscious seemed to know. It was the feeling of something just at the tip of his tongue, perched ready to reveal itself.

Not only had he discovered the man in the cellars bound for the gas room, now these people sat expectantly, but for whom? He could either try to scare them off, or wait until they revealed more. The curtain would be going up soon. Curiosity told him to stay while part of him howled that Mirielle might start upstairs without him.

Someone prowled along the front of the box, his voice traveling. "Unless we actually witnessed someone coming in that fit that description, we will not be able to find them."

"And then what?" Asked the woman. "You aren't the police. You just can't accost someone."

The sense of dread he had felt while below now settled even heavier upon his shoulders. These people didn't appear to be awaiting the arrival of friends. Why on earth had they picked his box, unless, like Denise, they had come with a behest for the Ghost?

"I—I remember a feather, four men in coats, a man and a woman together shadowed by death." The woman paused. "And one and five keep recurring."

Erik's breathing seized. Five was the number on the map.

"We are in box five. Could that be part of it?"

"Wait," the woman said. "Not four men in coats. The man in the coat is number four."

That was enough proof for Erik.

Mathurin La Chance froze, the hair on his neck lifting as he heard a somber voice. "Five on a field of white."

La Chance lifted a hand to Zacharie who sat with his hat in his hands and glanced about. "Thank God we've found you. Mademoiselle Claretie has had a vision about the final performance."

"Five on a field of white," the voice repeated.

"No," Solange replied. "I didn't see white. I thought I saw fire."

That would be consistent with an explosion, Erik mused. The man was going for the gas room. What lunatics would seek to destroy the Opera? Well, France did seem to have more than its share of radicals throughout its history. If they weren't being bombarded by the Prussians they were throwing their own revolts.

And then one memory slid neatly into place. "Young woman," Erik instructed, "you will stay here. Another lady will arrive shortly. You will be safe together. You two, leave the box and proceed to the lower ramps of the escalier. Go to the Vestibule des Abonnés. I shall meet you there once the curtain rises."

La Chance and de Brie turned to Solange. She nodded and smiled. "I'll be all right. You take care!"

They went swiftly out the door.

* * *

Mirielle opened the front door and glanced across the lake. Erik approached, the white of his collar bobbing out of the darkness. How he managed to find his way unerringly in the dark never failed to surprise her. The lack of light held no fear for him, as it did other people. He stepped into the boat and came swiftly across the lake.

"Sorry, I'm a little behind schedule."

"You seem breathless, dear man," she said, taking his offered hand and stepping into the boat.

The boat turned and sliced neatly though the dark glass of the water, leaving small ripples behind. She glanced at a spill of light from the grating high above. Its precise edges wavered as the ripple ran through it, making it appear to shiver.

Erik was unusually quiet this evening. His disappearing while she bathed still haunted her. She felt inside her heart that something was wrong.

As the boat coasted gently towards the quay, Erik leaped onto the cement and pulled the rope through the ring mounted there. He offered her a hand. As her fingers slid into his glove, her gaze sought his. "Erik, what is happening?" she asked urgently.

"Nothing, my dear," he replied easily.

As he pulled at her hand, she griped and held back. "You never wear black gloves to the Opera."

His tawny eyes caught fire. "Percival and I caught a man in the cellars. He had a map to the gas room. Right now, de Brie and two others are upstairs waiting for us. The woman is some sort of spiritualist. She says she saw something that was to befall us this evening."

Before she could speak, he continued, "I want the two of you to stay in box five. I know who I'm looking for, and I want you safe." He tried desperately to keep his voice level.

Mirielle was shocked, her eyes widened as she gazed at him. Pain lanced through his chest, his lungs. He would have rather torn his own hand off than to frighten her like this. "If anything happens--," he began, watching her eyes turn misty with tears. "If anything happens, you will go directly out of the building, put as much distance between it and you as you can and quickly."

She shook her head, and he admonished, "You must look after that young woman for me. My employment as the opera Ghost is going to be tested this evening, Mirielle. I'll meet you out front of the Opera." He prayed she didn't see the lie in his eyes.

Mirielle took a deep breath. "Of course." Her smile trembled a little. Why did men think lying would make a woman feel better? Whatever was happening had already been set in motion; she could feel it in the tone of his words. She straightened and took his arm. "We'll be fine."

Erik guided her up the ramp, her small hand rested upon his arm. He didn't have to look at her face to know she wore that small, slight smile of hers and that her eyes were shinning.

All too soon, they slipped into a hallway and he pushed open the wooden door to the box for her. She said nothing, only gave his fingers a final squeeze. He turned from the door and made his way downward, taking the light of her love with him.

* * *

Solange Claretie read over the program that a woman in a dark dress had dropped off. Seeing the feather in the woman's hat, she nearly bolted from her chair. She'd not felt the strange sizzling along her nerves that would come to alert her that her premonitions had come to fruition.

The door opened again, and she heard the rustle of a woman's gown. Turning, she saw a middle aged woman with her dark hair in a chignon. Her eyes were cobalt blue in the dimming lights, and her smile was soft an encouraging. She thrust a hand towards her. "How do you do? My name is Mirielle. Have you ever attended an opera?"

Along the side of the Garnier, a man slid a key into the gate at the Rue Scribe. If anyone had seen him, they would have seen his brown coat retreating into the stygian darkness.

Out front, a cab rolled to a stop. The woman offered the driver a franc note. When he reached into his pocket for change, he saw the woman had walked away. He waited at the curb until her figure disappeared inside the opera's door.

Erik walked swiftly along the hall and to a door that lead to a remarkably barren set of stairs. Listening at the door, he heard the tell tale sound of someone moving. He let the door close softly and retreated.

* * *

All of the patrons were inside now. The music swelled beyond the doors. Mathurin La Chance paced along the circle of columns in the vestibule. Their red jura stone was accented by billowing poufs of red velvet stretched between. Along each niche were mirrors in elaborate gilt frames. The entire space felt more like a lady's boudoir than a passage through the building.

Zacharie de Brie removed his spectacles and polished a lens with his handkerchief. La Chance marveled at how calm the other man seemed. Even though the ghost had promised to appear, things might still go terribly wrong.

"The odds aren't in our favor," he said morosely. "What can the Ghost do? There is only one of him and there has to be nearly two thousand people on the other side of those doors."

Zacharie pushed his spectacles up his nose. "He stands a better chance of finding someone than us," he retorted. "You know of his reputation. One doesn't receive the title of 'Ghost' without earning it somehow."

"A little of the magic," La Chance mused. "Solange said if I found him, a little of the magic would leave the world."

"That's because you only want something to print, Mathurin. You aren't looking for the real story."

La Chance stopped in his tracks. Looking over at Zacharie, he saw in the mirror the reflection of someone behind him. The man's face was covered in a swath of black. From it, two golden eyes watched him in the mirror. La Chance turned slowly.

They regarded each other in silence. La Chance had met many people during his years at the newspaper. Few had ever made such a marked impression upon him. Zacharie was right; no mere man could be born with those eyes. His presence was magnetic, siphoning away the interest in the opulence and the excess of the building. He was something of a masterpiece in his own right, if the stories were true.

"The President of the Republic is attending tonight's performance."

His voice was even more of a surprise. La chance wondered if he ever sang. He heard Zacharie exclaim, "My God. What shall we do?"

The Ghost took a step closer. "You will warn the President. I will make sure the people the young lady talked about do not get any closer."

"Won't you need help?" La chance asked. "Police?"

The head turned slightly. "I work much faster alone," he replied. He lifted a hand indicating the hallway. "There is the story you hoped for, young man."

de Brie was at his elbow. "Come on. We've got to warn them."

Mathurin felt rooted to the mosaic beneath his feet. "May we talk," he asked. "When this is all over?"

The Ghost lifted a hand in an eloquent gesture. "You shall have to ask my fiancée. She makes all the arrangements." He turned and began walking towards one of the mirrors.

As the Ghost neared the surface, it appeared to ripple and fold. There was a flash and then only the surface of the glass. "Swiftly, young man," came the voice again. "We all have appointed destinies."


	62. Act Two

**Chapter Sixty: Act Two**

Marceline's footsteps tapped loudly in the empty vestibule. She withdrew money and asked for one ticket to the performance. The man inside informed her the performance had already begun.

"You shouldn't miss much," he said with an encouraging smile.

"Thank you," she replied. "I won't." She turned away, with a wry smile. The explosion would take care of the stage. The debris would rain down in to the orchestra pit and tumble out into the audience. She almost snickered. All those people who paid extra for the seats up close were going to get their money's worth tonight. The others might live to tell the tale if they could race the fire that would consume the cellars, hell's maw opening under their pretty shoes.

Paris would never forget this.

She went up the sweeping ramps of stairs. Once she was on the level of the first row of boxes, she turned to the left and strolled along the long gallery. She examined the busts of composers, their marble faces frozen in what must have been the artist's idea of thoughtful expressions. She thought they looked terribly self-important and sour faced.

Sweeping over her head were paintings lit by over-wrought chandeliers. Every nook and cranny of space was covered in gilt, colored marble, and detailed with vines and leaves. Smiling, laughing, the faces gazed out over the hall attempting to affect the viewer with wonder. She could only wonder how much it all cost.

How many of the workers of Paris had turned out their pockets to the tax collectors? While the rich huddled in their houses, the workers of the city had joined in the National Guard, helping to man the cannons and defend the city as the shot from the Prussian cannons rained down. The government had fled to Versailles, leaving the poor to starve and suffer.

And then, they had invited the new German Empire to send in representatives to accept the city's surrender. The weary citizens had dragged the cannons to Montmartre. Following the orders of Adolphe Thiers, the Generals had attempted to move the cannons. When the people rebelled, the officers ordered the Guard to fire upon the crowd. Instead the soldiers had dragged the man from his horse and shot him.

Rebellion filled the hearts of the workers. Like scourging fire, they had blazed through Paris with cries of _"la république démocratique et sociale!" _The servants had turned upon their masters and took the city for themselves. A socialist red flag replaced the tricolore.

All too soon, the Versailles Army came at the behest of the old government and the rich aristocrats. Better organized, and taking advantage of Baron Haussmann's plan of wide boulevards, they systematically sought out the communards in their redoubts. _La Semaine sanglante_, the bloody week, would end in the deaths of thousands of Parisians including her husband and sons.

She stopped, glaring up at a winged figure. _Where was your mercy, God? Where was your good will between men? Could you not hear our prayers over the wailings of the rich in their fine churches? How much did they promise you to bend your ear to them while I wept?_

There would be weeping tonight. Tears and blood would turn this palace to a monument to the unquenchable desire for democracy, for freedom. It would become her mausoleum.

* * *

Erik paced along between the walls, the singing from the stage echoing down the length of the hall. He stopped at a junction. Up or down, left or right, under the soaring domes and ceilings or below to his dark world, too many choices he realized. Mirielle was in the box. La Chance and de Brie would warn the President's guards. dit LaFougère had police stationed at the corridors that led to the gas room.

_And what now?_ he mused. How was he to find one lone woman? She might not even have planned to be here. Perhaps she sent the men in to do the dangerous work. He glanced in a mirror.

He knew this woman. He had made her acquaintance before. Neither her size nor her stature would give away the steel beneath her skin. Fearsome Medusa, her very gaze would strike a man mute. For female though she was born, a serpent as viscous as an asp she was reared. Generations of despair and disappointment had polluted her blood, turned her sweet mouth to a furnace. Pain had shaped her, like beaten brass, given her claws and fangs.

The dark satin over his features revealed his burning golden eyes. He didn't feel as fierce as that strange countenance must appear. If anything, he felt dreadfully useless.

_Stop it, you ninny,_ he snarled. They had been extraordinarily lucky so far, finding the man with the note_. Stop bemoaning the pieces on the board drawing closer to the king_. He straightened and turned on his heel. It was time to marshal his pawns.

* * *

Madame Giry leaned against the door frame at the end of the hall, rubbing her foot through her shoe. She'd have to see about that bunion before it drove her mad, or worse, cost her her job. The managers would cast a disparaging eye on anyone who hobbled. It simply would not suit the image of the Opera.

"Madame."

She glanced beside her. The Phantom's voice sounded as if it were just there, next to her. "Yes?"

"There is a woman. She is wearing a hat with a feather. She might appear with a man in a brown coat. Have you ushered either of these people?"

"No. I cannot say that I have seen a woman with a hat."

"If you do—you must come to my box at once and let me know. Do you understand?"

"I—yes. The woman or the man? I should come to your box."

"Yes, Madame. It is imperative we find these people. Let us say that they are up to nefarious work that might injure the patrons."

Madame Giry gasped.

"Yes. We will not allow it, will we?"

"No! I'll be on the lookout."

"Thank you, Madame. I knew I could count on you."

She pushed away from the wall and headed down the row of doors to the boxes.

Erik walked the halls, sliding in quietly behind doors, around columns. He'd found six door closers as well as Madame Giry. He'd also offered the ladies in the coat room, and the two men in the lighting booth a reward for bringing information to box five. There was one area left for him to venture.

Unfortunately, those gentlemen were going to see a ghost.

As Act Two began, Richard took his seat in his box. Moncharmin had moved to sit with another group of patrons for the performance. Closing his eyes, he let the orchestra and the song wind around him. He taped out the beat, his fingers on his knee.

"Monsieur Richard."

Richard sat up abruptly, hands clenched on rail at the front of his box. Something dark moved inside the shadowed corner before the door. He didn't need to see this grim apparition, his voice announced him. "What do you want?"

"Two people are in the building. One, a man in a brown coat. The other a woman, she has a feathered hat. They mean to destroy the Opera."

Richard choked back a denial, but gazed at the figure. He could name the incidences that had brought the ghost into his line of sight. They were never trivial to his recollection. An unease crept up his spine. "My God."

"dit La Fougère has men downstairs. He apprehended a man with a map to the gas room…"

Richard's gaze shot to one side. "President de Mac-Mahon is attending the performance!"

"Precisely. I believe he might be the target. I have sent two men to his box to alert his guards. Despite my…reputation," the Ghost intoned, "I am only one individual. We need allies, Monsieur Richard. As we sit together, so may we be buried close if this woman has her way."

Firman Richard got to his feet, straightening his jacket. "The wealthier subscribers bring their coachmen and valets. I'll put them on the lookout when the intermission starts. If this woman is in the audience, we might not find her."

"You take care of the halls. I will watch over the auditorium."

The figure turned quickly and slipped out of the door. Richard caught the door as it began to close and swiftly followed the echoing steps of the Ghost.

* * *

The man in the brown coat descended the stairs, turning at each landing to follow the steps as they zigzagged downward. He unbuttoned his jacket and pulled out his pocket watch. On cue, he and Number Five, whose name he didn't even know, would open the boxes that housed the safety valves for the gas mains.

He'd visited this building every month for over a year, performing the routine safety checks. The last time he had come he had left a small wrench lying inside one of the three boxes that governed the gas input to the Rue Scribe side of the building. He and Number five would start there. Once those were taken care of, they would proceed to the eastern side of the building along the Rue Gluck.

It wouldn't take much to set it off. In a way he doubted Marceline would accomplish her grand explosion. He knew from listening to some of the custodians bragging that the fly tower and auditorium's domed cap had an iron skeleton to rival that monstrous metal edifice of Eiffel's. Garnier hadn't built this with his eyes closed. At the least, Marceline might get a good fire going and stampede the patrons.

He began coughing, the laudanum was wearing off. Pulling out his handkerchief he covered his mouth to catch the droplets of blood. The dull ache in his chest had been with him long enough. It was time to rest, for good.

* * *

_Aida_ was half way thought the second act when Mirielle could no longer resist the urge to worry over Erik. She'd folded one corner of her program repeatedly, twisted the post of the earring in her right ear, and generally fidgeted with her skirts. Dropping her program on her lap, she laced her fingers together on top to keep them still. A hand brushed her arm.

She linked her fingers with Solange's and gave them a reassuring squeeze. If this woman could see the future, she would surely recognize a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Mirielle stomped on a thread of anger. Sitting here she felt frustrated, useless, and horribly worried.

She would have let herself be wrapped in the voices from the stage, but the story held a tense foreboding that gave rise to a growing sense of desperation inside her. _Erik, where are you?_

* * *

Erik made a quick trip over the catwalks, over of the backstage area, looking for the interlopers. He was putting his trust in the hands of Richard. Watching the man over the years he knew he was adept at marshaling his logistics. By the time the third Act would begin, every usher, every door closer, the ticket booth men, and even the fruit ice sellers would be actively looking.

He paced towards the stage front, holding onto a rope and looking over at his box. In the dim light Mirielle still sat with the fair-haired Solange.

"Bless you, dear girl. Stay exactly where you are."

Turning away he stalked the shadows above the stage. Threading his way through dressing rooms, prop rooms, and numerous nooks and niches where a person might quietly stand watching, he saw a few people standing watch. _Bless you, Richard. You really can manage a theater._

It was left to him to wait. He positioned himself at the precise point between the pavilions that closed off each end of the front of the building and listened. The performance overrode many voices, but a single voice here, accompanied by footsteps would lead him to his quarry.


	63. Act Three

**Chapter Sixty-one: Act Three**

The small bells chimed and the ushers stood, holding the auditorium doors open while the crowd made their way back to their seats anticipating the final act of _Aida_. An occasional laugh rang out over the hushed comments as the parade of bejeweled woman and darkly attired men filtered between the doors.

The staff hovered at the intersections of the long halls, craning their necks to keep sight of one another. With curt nods they altered each other that the corridors were indeed clear. Tension made Richard walk jerkily. He pulled a handkerchief from his vest and mopped his brow. "Needle in a haystack," he muttered.

He had for one very brief instant entertained the thought that this might be an even more elaborate hoax perpetrated by the ghost until a policeman in plainclothes arrived, taking him aside by the elbow during the intermission to tell him more men had been brought in by request of the head of the President's guards. "Two fellows flashing newspaper identification refused to leave until someone took them seriously."

Richard withdrew a cigar and snipped the end off viciously with his cutter. He rolled it between his lips before pulling out a Lucifer. "Good, very good." He lit the cigar, puffing lustily. Withdrawing it from his mouth, he sent smoke upward in a steady stream. "I suppose all we can do now is keep our eyes open and pray."

* * *

Marcelline Rameau paused by the door to the facility for ladies. A man stood at the end of the hall, watching her. She pushed open the door and withdrew inside. She tossed her bag down upon the marble vanity before a row of gilt-edged mirrors and sat on the small seat.

With loving hands she withdrew a battered time piece. Flipping open the watch, she watched the second hand sweep over the face. Ten o'clock was rapidly approaching. The last Act had begun. In a matter of minutes she would leave, making her way close to the stage where the carnage would begin.

* * *

Erik stood near the backside of a mirror; palms pressed together, fingertips poised as a man in prayer. With every ounce of his being, he listened, sorting out his own heartbeat from the hushed voices. It would be soon now, unless dit LaFougère was fortunate enough to find the woman as well as the man in the brown coat.

Why brown? That particular color would stand out in the crowd of gentlemen in their Opera dress. What statement was to be found in making oneself obvious? Or were his adversaries simply dim witted?

No, it had to be a statement. One person might answer that question. He hurried back to the stage.

"Angelique?"

Angelique DuBois turned, her fingers flying to her mouth to snatch the straight pins she held between her firmly pressed lips. She held still, her gaze darting about the costume room. "Yes?"

"Angelique, my dear. I must ask an urgent question. What materials would a suit coat be made of that could be brown in color?"

Her brows dropped as she concentrated upon the question. "Wool, gabardine, camel hair….there are many fabrics that could be done in brown."

Air stirred with an almost palatable sigh. "I'm sorry to disturb you…"

"Wait," she said. "My Papa was a factory worker. He came to Paris from the country with only the shirt upon his back. When the factory took him on, they gave him a coat. It was brown, made of Drugget. It was stiff and ugly, but it was charity."

"My thanks, Angelique." She thought she heard him smile and wondered how his voice could do such a thing. But he was the Ghost after all.

"You are welcome?" she said, thinking he was already gone.

* * *

The man in the brown coat poked his handkerchief back into his pocket and picked up the small lantern. Walking along the corridors, he glanced over his shoulder. At times he felt as if a pair of eyes were boring into his back. Lord knew the denizens of the Garnier had told him enough tales of the Phantom. He'd dismissed them as a mild teasing upon the new man who had come to service the gas mains.

Perhaps they were not wrong.

The man in the brown coat headed up a flight of stairs thinking he could circumvent several lower halls and get to the next set of controls faster. He paused on a landing, pulling out his pocket watch. Twelve minutes remained. He pocketed the watch and turned to begin his climb when he heard a sharp 'clink'. By his foot lay his watch. Muttering a curse, he snatched up the timepiece. The glass was cracked across the face; the large hand had stopped, hung upon the uneven surface.

"Idiot!" he spat. His words echoed down the stair well. He started climbing once again. He would have to hurry now. If he didn't arrive in time to ignite the gas, then that woman would be on her own.

Breathing heavily as he reached the next landing, he paused to rub his chest. Damned Consumption! It stole the air out of his lungs and left him light headed. He leaned against the wall, gasping.

It was here that he was found by a man in a large brimmed hat.

* * *

Erik's mind whirled: Coats, material, workers. This all appeared to have the earmarks of one of the socialist groups from the time of the Prussian siege.

If the man were a city worker that might explain the way he knew where the gas room was. But would a common worker have access to the movements of the President?

If the brown of the coat was significant, what of the woman and the feather? A picture flitted into his thoughts. Feathers and wings, there were scores of them inside and outside of the Garnier.

The Garnier! How many of the workers did not return after the siege and the fall of the Paris Commune? Had these people, this woman particularly, lost a loved one who had been working upon the building during the siege? It would explain why the Opera was picked of all the edifices in the city.

And what did one do with wings, but ascend to the heavens? With the gas room below, the flytower would be the logical place for this woman to carry out her destruction. In fact, she counted upon it. Would she sit back and watch this unfold, or would she be at the center of it? If she wished a clear view of the President it would put her on the stage or very near his box.

He made his way swiftly to the one place in the Opera where he would share the same view. Box Five.

* * *

Rather than the beauty of the voices, dread wrapped itself around Mirielle and refused to be shrugged off. She kept a brave smile on her face when she glanced at Solange, only to have it melt as tears threatened to trickle from her eyes. So mired in the sense of doom that pervaded her thoughts, she jumped with a gasp as gloved fingers touched her cheek.

"Sweet girl," Erik's voice was low in her ears, bringing a flood of warmth to her body and a painful smile to her lips.

She laced her fingers through his. "I'm so frightened," she choked out.

"Hush, my love. Erik will protect you. I am always with you." His fingers squeezed hers gently.

She bit back a sob and cleared her throat. "Solange, may I present my fiancé?"

Solange Claretie would not have looked away from the apparition before her for all the gold in the world. He was part of the darkness, only his fey eyes and the color of his cravat separated him from the shadows. She felt an absurd urge to touch him to see if he were truly there or a fanciful construct of her imagination.

She reached out, and a dark gloved hand found hers, giving it a gentle handshake.

* * *

Marcelline checked her husband's watch one last time. She had only four minutes to make it to the stage where she could glimpse the President's box. She pulled open the door, peering down the length of the hall. Seeing no one, she stepped out.

She walked swiftly, her footsteps silent as she had left her shoes behind. Near the end of the next corridor would be a door. She knew it would lead to the stage area and also through a concealed door to the stairwell for the President's box. She was opening the door when she detected a noise not far from her.

Heart pounding and her throat dry, she waited until she thought she heard the person walk away. She prayed for courage and opened the door, stepping into the passageway.

"Who goes there?" A man's voice. Not friendly at all.

She lifted her head and smiled as she stepped into the light. His eyes grew round as he took in the hat that rested upon her head. He made a move towards her, but fear lent her swiftness. She raised the small derringer she had kept out of sight, and fired.

It jerked in her hand, startling her. The barrel smelled hot, and the puff of smoke from the end told her the bullet had left the pistol. Other than the loud pop that rent the air, neither of them moved. The man stared at her as he crumpled at the knees and fell to the floor.

"Oh, Christ," she muttered. She stood paralyzed for what seemed an eternity. She dropped her shaking hand and quickly jerked open her bag, pulling out another bullet. She could almost hear the last minutes ticking by, the hands on the watch drawing inexorably closer to the time of her death.

She jammed the bullet into the small pistol, dropped her bag and ran for the stage door. Her hat tumbled to the floor behind her.

* * *

Erik sat holding Mirielle's soft hand knowing neither one of them heard the performance. His one thought was that he loved her, beyond life, beyond even death, he would love her. She had come to him as a friend and lover and moved into his skin to inhabit his soul.

A movement caught his eye. Light spilled in the President's box, a man stepped forward. Erik turned his eyes to the stage. There, somewhere must be the terrorist. He let go of Mirielle's hand abruptly and opened the pillar at the side of the box.

Two floors down and out into the first prop room, he took the stairs swiftly up to the level directly under the stage. He kicked a small crate out of the way of the backmost trap door and stepped into the mechanism. The spring recoiled, and the light of the stage bathed him from above. He rose like an avenging wraith up to the stage.

Voices faltered in confusion, the players shrank away from his dark appearance. Several members gazed stupidly, frozen in their places as a figure in a tired looking emerald satin gown strode out upon the stage. Her arm extended. Eyes widened and sounds died in disbelieving throats.

Voices arose from the audience. Somewhere a woman screamed. The curtain appeared, an inexorable blood red wall separating the stage from the audience. Erik's eyes focused, the periphery tunneling into darkness, his predatory instinct fixing on his target. As if something had whispered in her ear, her eyes turned to his. She pointed the gun at his chest, but Erik still moved towards her.

Marcelline drew back from the creature that approached. It occurred to her that death did not carry a scythe, nor hover inside a cloak. She retreated hastily, nearing the front of the stage and the row of footlights. "Long live the Communards!" She shouted. Marcelline slid the barrel of the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.

The gun cracked like thunder, the acoustics of the auditorium making the sound rebound with hellish accuracy. People moved, women screamed, the performers shrank from the body. Erik's own breathing hitched. She'd botched the job and lay with one foot thrashing in an ever widening pool of her own blood.

He sank to one knee next to her. One eye was half-closed, but her lips moved. "For..love," she said in a slurred voice.

"For love," he agreed. "_Kyrie elieson_." In a fleet, smooth movement he snapped her neck. With his dark gloved fingers he closed her eyes. "_Christe eleison…_"

He was still kneeling next to her when the police, the President's guards, and dit LaFougère arrived. Someone's hand touched his shoulder. He looked up into Zacharie de Brie's taut features. "It's finished," he whispered.

And then Mirielle was there, tears leaving silver trails over her cheeks. She threw her arms around him and clung to him as if she would never let him go.

http://www.thm-online.dk/tidsperioder/1863-1906/montre45/b-4131/ Marcelline's single shot .41 caliber derringer.


	64. Curtain Calls

**Chapter Sixty-two: Curtain Calls**

Erik got to his feet somehow, feeling the weight of every one of his fifty years combined with Mirielle's desperate strength. The sound around him had become a furious buzzing. He glimpsed resentful glares of men in guard uniforms amongst the shocked performers in their exotic garb. dit LaFougère stood before the guards with upraised arms, instructing that the strange man with a mask was not the enemy.

The Guard Captain disagreed—insinuated Erik had cheated them of learning who the woman was and how many accomplices she had. "He killed her!" the man spat.

dit LaFougère got nose to nose with the Captain, his voice dangerously low. "She wasn't going to last much longer anyway! Those grey lumps on the floor aren't sawdust. Besides," he growled, "if it weren't for his quick actions, I wouldn't have been able to warn you about the threat to the President in the first place!"

La Chance stepped next to Percival, putting himself between Erik and the guards. "This man was the one who sent de Brie and me to warn you."

Zacharie knelt near the body, taking off his coat to cover the face of the woman who lay dead upon the stage. Before him the curtain was a length of red velvet looking eerily like a fall of blood.

Erik heard the choking sobs of women on the stage, the most heart wrenching being Mirielle's.

He wound arms around her and held her as she clung to him desperately. She needed to be held, to let her fears leach away into his stronger frame. He rested his cheek upon the top of her head and stood, running a hand up and down her back until her sobs slowed.

The Captain still looked unconvinced. The performers and stage hands milled at the edges, glancing uncertainly at the men in uniform and the ensuing argument, all but Richard and Denise Martin who stood in the circle of Dragos' arms. They were joined by Madame Giry, and Angelique, and so many others who had inhabited the Garnier with him. Shocked tears vied with tremulous smiles as these people who had been a distant part of his life watched him hold Mirielle, slowly drifting between Erik and the Guards.

"Be that as it may, I want these people rounded up for questioning!" The Guard Captain commanded.

Richard finally recovered. He straightened his jacket as he stepped close to the Captain. "Now see here! We are at the end of a performance!" He waved a hand at the curtain. "I can't just stop the Opera!" Calling two men over, a stretcher was made and the woman's body was lifted carefully from the floor, as if she were merely sleeping. They tucked her arms and her skirts into the stretcher and left de Brie's coat over her face as they wound their way offstage.

Richard turned in a circle. "Act Three?" Slowly the performers nodded. "We'll take it from _Heavenly Spirit, Descend_, in fifteen minutes." He clapped his hands sharply. Let's get to it!" He strode to the curtain to make the announcement, his gaze snapping to Erik's as he drew near.

Erik gave Mirielle a long hug. "Come, Mirielle," he coaxed softly.

She nodded against his chest. Looking up she nodded once more. "Can we go home?"

Still locked in his arms, he guided her towards a trap door with exquisite slowness. When the Captain turned to give orders to one of the men, La Chance took a step, filling the space between the Captain's vision and Erik's path.

Erik took hold of the door and heaved it upwards. Scooping Mirielle to him he told her, "Pull your skirts in!" In a swirl of cut velvet and darker wool, they dropped through the stage floor.

To the sound of running feet and props being pushed aside overhead, Erik pulled Mirielle through the dark cellar away from the trapdoor they had used to escape. Down two floors and through the niche where Mirielle had been accidently locked the night La Chance brought the man with the device down, he soon was guiding her towards the lake.

The remainder of the journey was silent. Mirielle had finally run out of tears. She sat on the seat in the boat looking tired and empty as Erik piloted it across the lake. They entered the house together, but he hovered at the doorway. "I need to see about the others…"

"No you do not!" Mirielle spun and drew herself up. "Erik," she spoke urgently. "I know about the lasso." She pointed down the hall. "I know about that, that chamber. I know about the Daaé girl, and the box and Persia, and you've told me about your coffin." She fisted her hands at her sides. "Now I am going to say this once. What you did up there was all that could have been done for that unfortunate creature. She made her choices. She was going to see us all dead."

He felt his shoulders bowed under the weight of all those years, all those deaths. "You shouldn't--." She took a number of determined steps towards him before he lifted hands as if to warn her off. "I didn't want you to see."

She stopped with a look of pain on her face that made his heart feel as if it were seizing in his chest. "I saw you…you Erik. I saw you do something incredibly brave! You walked straight to that women. She was holding a gun! She might have shot you or any of those poor people on the stage!"

"I told you, I was a killer…" After all those years, and all the blood, tonight shamed him utterly.

Her eyes shone with tears. "She wanted death. You gave her mercy." She stepped forward and laid a hand on his lapel, slid it up to his neck. "Stay with me, Erik. Choose life…choose happiness."

Shame settled in his body, dragging him lower. He felt his teeth might be chattering, and clamped his lips together.

"Choose me," she whispered. "Choose us." She took his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing it sweetly before placing it against her cheek. "I love you. Is that not enough?"

He gasped aloud. "Enough? How can you even believe that? It is all to me."

"Then prove it. Lock the door on the world and come to bed. I'm tired and I'm cold, and I am so very, very happy we are safe."

Despite their intimacy, he felt awkward in asking, "You still want me?"

She nodded her head, her trembling lip caught between her teeth. "Oh, yes! There is no where on earth I would wish to be more than in your arms."

He gave her what she asked. Scooping her up he took her to the little room where she had slept apart from him, awaiting their vows. The air rife with endearments and pleadings, they found the bed in a tangle of clothes and kisses, sharing the warmth of their hearts and the fire of their passion.

It occurred to Erik before they drifted into the oblivion of dreams that he was going to be a terrible husband. He had meant to comfort her. Instead of giving to her, he received a treasure beyond price from Mirielle, her belief that he was not an ugly little stone, but a diamond after all.

* * *

Several floors above, the performance was nearing the end. Zachaire de Brie sat in his shirt and vest, staring at Aida and Radames in the tomb together. La Chance and Solange Claretie sat beside him in Richard's box.

As the curtain came down, the audience responded enthusiastically to the curtain calls, bringing the singers out again and again. He noticed the singers stayed away from that end of the stage where the woman had died. One bouquet laid there, a silent reminder of an unfathomable tragedy.

La Chance clapped in response, detached from the euphoria. He kept seeing that woman's face as she pulled the trigger. Her gaze locked upon the Ghost, she appeared to see her own death stalking her. The reaper had arrived promptly, in a chilling tower of dark clothing and piercing golden eyes. What she had hoped to accomplish expired on stage with her.

Richard got up. "Tonight felt like eternity." He stepped forward to offer a hand to Solange. "I'm sorry your first experience here was under this sad circumstance. We'd be happy to provide you all with tickets. The next season will be a comedy." He paused, glancing between them. "I think we shall be in sore need of it." He turned and left quietly.

Mathurin La Chance looked at Solange's profile. "Thank you for coming with us. You saved my poor mother from this experience."

"I had to come," she replied. "I had to see, if only a glimpse."

"You saw him?"

"He shook my hand. He is ever such a perfect gentleman," she gushed.

Mathurin smiled. "He is when he isn't pestered, I think."

"Does she know about the trip to the, ah, underground?" De Brie hesitated delicately, stopping before he could say 'sewers'.

"I shall have to tell her the tale sometime, but not tonight. We all deserve a rest."

Zacharie pulled out his watch and opened the case. "Feel like a nightcap? I still have my credentials. We could go meet the cast."

Mathurin smiled in surprise. "Certainly. I have nowhere else to go."

* * *

The backstage buzzed with talk of the performance, champagne glowing golden in glass flutes. Smiles seemed a little over bright, and laughter edged with hysteria. Despite the fawning compliments to the singers and dancers, there could be heard snatches of talk of the reason the curtain fell abruptly and the sound of a gunshot.

La Chance pondered the bottom of his third glass. Solange stood, dreamily taking in her surroundings. Zacharie chatted quietly with one of the dancers. As the crowd began to thin, Solange turned to La Chance. "I should go home."

"Would you like to share a cab?"

She smiled at him a moment. "Tomorrow, I think."

He felt himself blink. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes. I think you can talk to him tomorrow. Let him have a quiet night. He was most upset."

La chance gaped. "The—," he glanced at the people around them. "The gentleman?"

"Yes," she replied wistfully. "The night is for comfort."

He considered her turn of phrase. "It is always night below stairs here."

"Dark is not always night," she replied sagely.

Sitting his empty glass upon the corner of a bust, he took hold of her arm. "Let's see if Zacharie can meet us here tomorrow."

* * *

Erik awoke stroking a hand along the cat's warm fur, listening to it purr in his ear.

"Mmmm?"

He turned his head and examined the dark hair that curled on the snowy field of the pillowcase. It topped a pair of blinking eyes. "What is it darling?" He heard Mirielle's sleepy voice.

"Cat wants out." He crossed his hands over his chest and sighed.

"Cat? We don't have a cat, silly man."

"Good," he sighed. "Tiresome creatures. They either ignore you or want to walk over you with their tails in the air, waving them under your nose."

"Erik?"

"Mmmm?"

He felt lips brush his chin. "Go back to sleep."

He did, quickly and completely until he realized he didn't have a cat anymore. In his slumbering stupor he did become aware that he had a woman pressed intimately to his body.

His eyes opened and his gaze rested upon that dark hair. It scrolled in a circle, making an intricate curlicue upon his shoulder. Or perhaps a treble cleft. Or even…a six?

Yes! Today made it a week until his nuptials. Tomorrow there would be six days left.

Mirielle lay with an arm over his waist. Laying on his back, Erik pondered his imminent return to his marriage bed and its cold sheets and the forlorn looking pillow that waited for her to lay her head upon it.

"Six more nights," he said aloud. He slid the sheet away from Mirielle and let his eyes wander over her lush body. Dropping the sheet he lay back with a smile, his mind awhirl with the most amorous ways to wake her with.


	65. Eye of the Almighty

**A/N: there is a Risque version of this chapter...let me know for those who wish to read it. **

**Chapter Sixty-three: Eye of the Almighty**

Mirielle awoke when something nudged her. Lifting a hand, she pushed a hair out of her face, and reached out. Her fingers met a silken material.

An arm tightened around her. "Good morning," a masculine voice spoke close to her forehead.

She blinked sleepily. An expanse of muscle and sparse hairs told her what rested under her hand was indeed her fiancé. She moved her hand over his chest. "Good morning."

"Are you going to be very busy today?"

She exhaled and thought about what day it was. "I'm supposed to have lunch at the apartment." She clenched her fingers, nails scraping over his chest.

The events of the night came back to the forefront of her memory. Her fingers moved to find his heartbeat. He'd faced down the woman with a gun aimed at his chest. If things had been different…

She burrowed closer to his side.

"You can't be cold," he chastised.

She pursued her lips and turned her head. Cold.

Cold, lifeless fingers that would never play the violin, would never hold the hand of his grandchild. Erik's pale skin turned as cold as marble, and just as rigid. His expressive eyes dulling as the lightning that flashed in their depths winked out leaving gaping dark sockets. How slim a thread is an existence, awaiting Atropos'unforgiving shears?

Fingertips slid softly under her chin. "Stop that," he said softly. "We are safe."

She turned her face into his hand, and untangled one of her hands to lace her fingers with his. Her throat choked with tears that squeezed past her shut eyelids.

"Mirielle." Her face was lifted, placed close to the pulse in his throat. "Hush, my darling girl."

"I just…I'm sorry." She wiped at her eyes with a self-deprecating grin. "I am a silly old thing, aren't I?"

"You sobbed until you were drained. It's a natural reaction for a body. That sort of thing helps purge the welling emotion, that's all." He shifted on the bed. "Shall I bring you a handkerchief?"

She shook her head vigorously. "No. I'm all right."

The dark expanse of his mask tilted towards her face. His lips did not smile, but his tawny eyes shown with approval. "That's my little bride of paradise."

"Bride? Are you thinking of a 'Bird of Paradise?"

His hand moved, cupping her bottom. "You don't have any tail feathers." She was startled into emitting a squeak.

"We are still in your bed," he reminded her. "Am I to be cast out into the cold dawn now that you've had your way with me?"

An image of the church, the guests, and Erik standing so tall and proud awaiting his bride in a mere six days popped into her head. That was almost a whole week away, a little imp whispered in her ear. It needn't have bothered. She pouted saucily, his golden gaze examining her with interest. "I don't think the maestro wants to leave yet."

Passion gave way to sighs later as he shifted his weight to her side and stretched out beside her. Not for the first time, Mirielle silently chastised the little soprano that had fled before this man. She had been young, and foolishly in love with her childhood friend.

Mirielle smiled, speeding a thank you heavenward that the little Swedish girl had been a simpering virgin as well. It took a woman to stand in the face of this firestorm of male energy and direct it to where it should be best occupied.

She drifted off, and woke again. It appeared the maestro was quite set upon becoming rude with his muse again.

* * *

Brushing her hair, she remembered her hair combs had spun away in the flurry of undressing the night before. Running a hand under the covers, she found one. She found the other with her toe.

Returning to the sitting room, Erik stood looking at his watch. He glanced over his shoulder. "I'm going to find us an apartment today. I'll take a cab to Nadir's apartment and press him into accompanying me, if you have no need of him."

"I think I can spare him for the day," she agreed. Stepping close, she wound her arms around his waist. "Six days, Monsieur Vachon."

"Six days," he agreed. After this morning, it didn't seem the eternity it did before. In fact, it felt as if time were now accelerating along a downhill track. In four days his future daughters would be arriving. He pressed a kiss to her lips, softly. "I love you."

"I love you."

He held the door for her and held out a hand to assist her into the boat. With one last glance at the house, he pushed the craft out into the black surface of the lake and steered it towards the other shore.

Erik held open the door for Mirielle. She started up the stairs, passing Pythia who appeared to cast her attention towards the sounds of Mirielle's heels upon the stairs.

He hummed a tune and strolled towards the bust of one of the composers, listening for the sound of her approaching the doors at the front of the building. When silence reigned, he turned and went back to the cellars.

The gas room looked none the worse for the attempted sabotage. The pipes and the valves had a fine layer of dust upon them. A web was strung between a set of pipes, its arachnid architect hung in it, twirling in the puff of air that Erik's hand created as he reached towards it. It had died and desiccated, leaving only a fragile husk behind.

At least the saboteurs had not gotten this far. He really should go in search of Percival dit LaFougère and see what the police and the President's security had been able to uncover.

The woman's face supplanted his musings. Like so many others, her gaze had trained upon him, and the inevitability of her death etched a fascinated fear upon her features. A stunned moment gave way to a certainty, and she had made her own decision; death before capture.

On the stage, with the performers milling in confusion and frozen horror, he would have been more than glad to be judge and jury. She held a gun. He did detect the acrid tang of the gunpowder upon her. Whether she fired the weapon in anger or for defense, he neither knew nor cared at that moment. It only meant that she would be prepared to shoot again.

He'd ask Percival when he found him.

Stairs zigzagged upwards. Erik listened to the faint creak of his shoes as he ascended. The deep silence below him seemed sadly hushed, as if it too awaited an answer. Was it human curiosity or an innate foolishness to want to have an answer that could be examined? A moment of clarity to open a window for all concerned to bring an understanding as to why such an act had been undertaken by these people.

Death only begot death.

Erik checked several places for Percival. When he did not find him, he turned instead to the manager's office. Squeezing in behind the wall, he waited until he heard the voice of Remy, the secretary bringing someone into the room.

Footsteps stopped short of where Moncharmin's desk sat. He heard Andre's petulant voice. "Will this take long? We have already given statements…"

A passable baritone answered, "I am not concerned with the police report."

The clipped reply made Erik's brow ridges climb. It reeked of self-importance. The arrogant baritone continued.

"We want those people found!"

"But, you arrested that one man, and the woman—well you know about her."

"Not them. That fellow on the stage. The one that got away."

"Oh."

There was a tense silence in the room. "Oh? Well, out with it, man! We want that man for questioning!"

To his credit, Andre actually snorted aloud. "_Bonne chance_, Captain!" Erik heard his wheezing laugh.

Andre must have rang the bell, for Remy's staid tread paced along the length of the room. "The Captain wishes to have a meeting with you-know-who."

"Excuse me? I know who?"

"Yes," Andre wheezed. "You-know-who."

Erik pictured poor Remy's heavy feature's laced in confusion. "Who? I know who?"

Andre must have slapped the desk with his hand. His wheezing laugh wound on.

Remy tried again. "Who shall I bring to the office, Monsieur?"

"Good lord," the baritone moaned. "What is wrong with that man?" His tone became stern again. "I'm warning you!"

"Who?" Remy piped once again.

"Alors!" The baritone groused. "Entertainers! I swear, I should lock you all up."

Remy must have opened his mouth, but the baritone cut him off, hollering over Andre's laughter. "That fellow with the mask!"

The air was rent with Andre Moncharmin's wheeze and Remy's braying. A power slam signaled the Captain's retreat from what he must have believed a lunatic asylum. Erik pushed away from the wall with his fingertips and made his way to the hallway, humming to himself.

_A lady most fair did awaken_

_To find that her bed had been taken_

_Her beau she did kiss_

_And twine in sweet bliss_

_For the maestro could not be forsaken_

* * *

Nadir looked up from his paper at his manservant. "Erik is here?" He glanced at the marble clock on the mantle. "Show him in."

Folding the paper, Nadir pulled of his spectacles as Erik walked into the room. "You are up and about early."

Erik sat heavily in the opposite chair. "Someone tried to blow up the Garnier last night."

Nadir swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. "_Allah_. Are you both all right?"

Erik nodded. "Yes. If I were a pious man, I'd light a hundred candles in thanks…"

"Why don't you?" Nadir retorted. "I'd think having both of your lives spared would be worth a trip into a church, Erik. You don't set much store in the Almighty, but that does not mean that his eye is not upon you." He paused to take in Erik's stiff demeanor. "He brought you Mirielle," Nadir reminded him.

Erik nodded. "I could have lost her."

"But you didn't. Don't think of what _might_ have happened." Nadir switched his interrogation. "Details."

Erik made a soft snort. "Always the daroga."

"Out with it, _sahhar_."

Erik's long fingers gripped the chair arms as he began recounting the time between finding the man in the cellars, and the moment he and Mirielle escaped through the trap door. Nadir sat quietly listening. This was not easy for Erik. There were no pointed witticisms or scalding insults accompanying his tale. There was simply a man who had been caught in a growing nightmare.

Erik ended the tale. The clock ticked like a mechanical heart. Nadir sat forward and rested his face in his palms. "Praise Allah. You have survived another night in darkness."

"No longer," Erik replied. "I'm searching today for an apartment. I will not keep Mirielle below in my home. I want her up in the sunlight, the air. I want a terribly plain building along a quiet street where the most commotion we suffer is a noisy cab outside our windows."

"You are moving?"

"As soon as possible."

Nadir allowed a soft chuckle to escape his lips. Erik's tawny gaze turned into a disbelieving glare. Nadir flung up a hand. "I'm not laughing at what you have told me. I'm laughing because we will have to move that bed!"

Below the edge of the mask, Erik's thin lips twisted into a grin. Darius came to the door to offer refreshments, finding the two men laughing heartily about furniture.

* * *

_sahhar_--magician 


	66. Six Days

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Fanfic no longer allows complete email addresses to be viewed, so if you wished the 'M' chapters you will have to pm me your address. **

**Chapter Sixty-four: Six Days**

Nadir slid onto the seat of the cab. "You don't suppose the establishment you got that bed from has another one just like it do you?"

Erik didn't bother to grace the question with an answer. "The first apartment is said to 'overlook the Jardin du Luxembourg'. I think Mirielle would enjoy a garden."

A short half hour later both the men were peering through a window at a row of apartments across the street. Nadir craned his neck, leaning towards the edge of the window. "Ah, I see it now. You can just make out the trees if you stand here."

Erik scanned the small rooms. "Unsuitable." He turned on his heel, his greatcoat flapping like dark wings as he headed for the door.

Nadir made apologies to the man who had allowed them in. "He's thinking about it."

The second apartment on the list was already taken according to the man who answered the door. It didn't take an ex-policeman to decipher the look the man wore as he took in Erik. Nadir felt it was just as well that neither of them said anything as they left.

Two more attempts were luxurious with a price to match, but sandwiched in a row of shops, banks, and hotels. From the moment they had exited the cab, Nadir could feel the tension radiating from Erik as he stepped quickly into the buildings. When Erik took a cursory look about the rooms and headed for the door, Nadir took a moment to pop into a shop and pick up another newspaper. He waved it in the cab window at Erik. "Come on, let's have a cup of coffee."

Erik climbed back out of the cab in that smooth, uncoiling way he had that left Nadir feeling perpetually clumsy. Pulling the brim of his hat lower, he stood for a moment and then gestured for Nadir to lead on.

"I'd forgotten what a tiring feat being in public is," Erik mumbled.

"Take heart, we'll find something that pleases you."

Nadir led him to a small café that was full of people milling out front. Erik navigated smoothly through the group. The smells of fresh ground coffee and warm pastries filled the establishment. Erik made a bee line for a small table in a corner. He sat with his head tipped down, his long fingers encased in their leather gloves, splayed over the surface of the table.

"I've stopped here before," Nadir said companionably. "The coffee is excellent for what you Parisians swill on a daily basis." He pushed the paper towards Erik. "Here, start looking in this one."

Erik sat as still as a statue. Nadir glanced across the table to see a woman standing with a young girl; the child's curious gaze searched the dark man.

_All Erik needs is for some ninny to start screaming_, Nadir thought.

The waiter arrived, asking for their order. Erik gave precise instructions, never taking his eyes away from the child. As the waiter left, the girl raised a hand, wiggling her fingers in a wave. Erik's long fingers lifted from the table, waving back.

Nadir exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. The other two continued their silent staring until the girl's mother turned to leave the café. Looking down at the paper, Nadir's eyes scanned a headline. "Look at this. It's about last night."

Erik read over the article. "The woman was Marcelline Rameau according to papers found in her bag. The man captured by Percival was taken to the hospital. He's dying of consumption and confessed it was a plot to draw attention to the Communards."

"But most of those people are dead or deported. What did they hope to bring attention to?"

"Pain." It was spoken in a harsh tone, but Erik's amazing voice lent it a wealth of sadness.

If Erik continued with this morose inaction, he'd soon be in a cab and back at the Opera. "Hand me a page of the paper. Have you considered a house rather than an apartment?"

They sat through two cups of coffee as the customers thinned out and the list of places to see grew. Nadir struck off the ads as they left each building. "That leaves three more."

Erik pointed out a small ad, "I want to talk to those people."

The cab deposited them on the steps of an office. Erik swept into the building like a dark storm. "I wish to see a list of private homes."

The secretary gaped a moment before nodding. "Certainly, Monsieur. Do you have a preference as to the area?"

"I'd like something private," Erik pronounced succinctly. His elegant fingers uncurled close to his mask.

Nadir could have kicked him. The secretary already looked unsure of this new customer.

"Money is _not_ an object," Erik added.

Nadir had stood by for years, in palaces, in hotels, and in alleys, and watched Erik's imperious interplay with people. When he couldn't cow them, he resorted to the one currency all men responded to: greed. The secretary was no exception. He offered them seats at a large table and bowed his way out of the room in search of the head agent.

Erik sat down with a sigh, his tawny eyes disappearing briefly. They opened, but remained hooded as two men came in welcoming him effusively.

Erik slashed the air with a hand. "Nothing on a main street. I would prefer a garden or property skirting the house, heavily treed or surrounded by a fence. It must have a study, a music room, at least one parlor, four bedrooms at the minimum, none on the ground floor, a separate stair for servants, and a full cellar.

Nadir opened his coat and sat back. Judging by the brittle but polite smiles upon the faces of the agents, he and Erik would be here for some time.

* * *

Mirielle stood looking in the mirror. Ursulé had accompanied her on this trip. She sat perched on a small chair, wearing a large smile. "Oh, it shall be lovely, Mirielle."

Madame Ouvard stood back, looking over her handiwork. "It is a superb color for you, Madame."

"Six days. All this work for an afternoon," Mirielle mused, turning in the light and watching the long skirt of lavender satin shimmer. Embroidered along the forearm and wrist, a fringe fell from the trim and mirrored the edging on the stand-up collar. Madame Ouvard had cleverly made the top into a jacket. The full skirt was joined to the bodice of the dress underneath, which featured a dropped neckline suitable for wearing later as an evening gown.

"You will be a beautiful bride. And it shall be a perfect wedding," Ursulé beamed.

Mirielle giggled. "That will be a first in history. No wedding ever goes as you think it will."

Madame Ouvard stepped around Mirielle. "You are fine with the length?"

"It's perfect, thank you."

"My pleasure. We did, after all, make the velvet dress for you. I'm pleased you thought of us for your wedding."

Mirielle undid the row of small pearl buttons down the front. "That dress brought me the confidence to sit in a box at the Opera. It brought me Erik." Slipping of the jacket she smiled at Ursulé's reflection. "And this is the one that I will wear when I make sure that I keep him."

* * *

Erik sat with his great coat buttoned up to the neck, the brim of his hat tipped over his mask. "No," he grated out.

Nadir pushed his hand into his pocket and started caressing the smooth string of beads he carried. As his fingers slid from one to the next, he implored heaven to intercede. The clock that hung on the wall near his shoulder was winding up to strike. The two agents sat pouring over books while their harried assistant darted from one bookcase to the next, pulling out records.

One of the men turned a register so that Erik might read the information on the house in question. Erik merely grunted.

"This one is on the Boulevard…."

Erik raised his head and stilled the agent with a fulminating glare. "No."

_You lack wit_, Nadir silently amended for the benefit of his companion.

He had to hand it to the agents. They had been diligent in running down the lists of rooms, appointments, architectural styles and locations for each of the dozens of homes they had presented to Erik. None of them had possessed the entire list of qualifiers that Erik had requested, and only one might have mollified Erik had it not been for the location.

It was on the tip of Nadir's tongue to ask Erik is he thought he were still at court in Persia, entertaining the Shah by tormenting the plethora of _shahzadeh_ and their sycophants, when Erik sat forward slowly, palm upturned. The agent slid the paper he held onto Erik's palm and sat looking cautiously hopeful.

Erik's eyes bored trails across the page he held. Nadir withheld a grin. The agents didn't know it, but they had just managed to snatch themselves from the embarrassment of losing a client. Erik's intense study of the page could only mean that something had caught his attention.

"I will examine this one." Erik pronounced. "Call for a cab." While the agents sent their secretary out onto the street, Erik lay the paper down and pushed it towards Nadir. "It says it has a sunny kitchen."

For a moment, Nadir thought he might be sitting with his mouth open. Erik raked him with an impatient glare. "For Mirielle," he said with exaggerated patience. "Really, daroga, aren't you the one always harping about making a wife happy?"

Erik arose and went out of the office door. A cab appeared in time for him to walk directly to it and seat himself while the secretary held open the door. Nadir sat his bowler upon his head and climbed in. Of all of his experiences with Erik, today might become one of the more pleasant in his memory.

The events of the last evening must have sobered Erik. In fact, he had barely bestirred himself from regal boredom as he sat through the presentations. No one's ancestors had been insulted, and no scathing observations about the lack of proper education in France, nor the relative size of a businessman's brain being of a similar to a walnut.

Erik refused to share the cab. He instructed the agents to give directions to the driver and precede him to the property. He stared out of the cab's window, avidly taking in buildings along the way. Nadir didn't doubt Erik already knew exactly how to find the house. It perched near the edge of the Seine; it's façade towards a small, cobblestone street. While from the front it seemed bland, the view from the back towards the river was beautiful, and as private as one might hope for in Paris.

Going into the house, Erik pointed out architectural details. Someone had laid Italian marble in the front foyer. Erik hesitated before a large, gilt framed mirror. "Take that down," he instructed.

The estate agent glanced at Nadir who lifted a hand. "You take the other side." While they removed the offending glass, Erik walked on through the house, his footsteps sounding in the quiet of the home. He passed a parlor and went straight to the next room. It opened with pocket doors, and had a floor of polished wood upon which Nadir saw four evenly spaced marks. "I think they had one of those new pianos," he remarked as he pointed out the spots to Erik.

The kitchen looked adequate if not a little small for so grand a house. There were five rooms on the next floor and a water closet that sported a beautiful tub. None of the fixtures showed any wear to Nadir's eyes, the room must have been recently renovated. A square of stained glass cast rich greens and blues down over the tub's cool, white surfaces.

When the agent offered to lead them up to the attic, Erik sniffed and turned away. "I know what every inch of an attic looks like," he told Nadir softly. "I prefer to see the cellar," he told the agent.

Down a flight of stairs, Erik merged with the darkness while the agent fumbled to strike a lucifer to a candle stub they had found in a kitchen drawer. Nadir held the railing and stepped carefully downward, testing every stair before putting his weight upon it. When he found Erik, her was bent over a large dark shape.

"Daroga! What utterly amazing luck we have had today. Do you know what this is?" Erik's long fingers pushed aside a tarp, under which a polished wood reflected the candles light.

"Is that the piano?"

"No, something far better. It's one of Debain's instruments! It's a harmonium."

"Merciful Allah. What is it doing down here?" Nadir turned a look behind him at the agent who had stopped on the stairs.

The man shrugged. "Perhaps they just forgot it was down here?"

Erik sped the man an incredulous glance. "One does not simply forget an instrument like this."

Pulling out the paper from his pocket, the man brought it to the rind of light the candle provided. "There was a sale after the owner's death. It might not have been claimed."

Nadir agreed, "It isn't easy to find the space for something like this. Families leave things behind all the time when they move into apartments."

Erik shook his head sadly. "Such a pity." He glanced about the room, and pointed towards the coal chute and the only doors that lead up to the surface. "We shall take it up that way."

"Erik, are you purchasing the house?"

"Yes, yes, daroga." He pointed at the agent. "You, go up and get the driver. I want this installed upstairs before the moisture damages it."

Nadir turned to grin at the man who took off like a shot.

* * *

They stood with their coats off, mopping their foreheads as Erik prowled around the exterior of the instrument. "A little more this way," he motioned. The driver and the agent lifted one end of the harmonium and swung it the direction Erik pointed. "Perfect."

Nadir stuck his knuckle in his mouth and sucked at the bloody scrape upon it. "Thank Allah," he muttered.

"I heard that, Nadir," Erik groused. "I would think you would be pleased for me, a house and an instrument in one day." He turned to the estate agent. "Bring the papers here tomorrow, precisely at nine o'clock. You will have a bank draft in hand that afternoon." Erik swept towards the door leaving them to stuff their arms back into their coats and retrieve their hats.

"We don't usually give our clients a key…," the agent began.

Nadir cut him off. "Listen, we didn't carry that beastly organ up here for nothing. Make him happy, or be prepared to suffer more house hunting!"

Erik stood with a hand lifted to accept the key from the agent. The man nodded stiffly and placed it in Erik's palm. "Congratulations. I'll be here in the morning."

Nadir followed Erik out as he locked the front door. One moment the dark metal key was in Erik's hand and in the next it had disappeared. "I'm pleased," Erik mused. "I think Mirielle shall be as well."

Nadir stuffed his hand into his pockets against the chill February air. "I can tell you are, ever since you found your new lair."

Erik's intense eyes grew large inside the mask. "My what?"

"You're lair, I said."

"What utter nonsense," Erik harrumphed.

"You are exchanging one underground domain for another that simply has a smaller building atop it."

"Nadir, I believe blood poisoning has set in that scrape upon your hand. You are even starting to look feverish."

"I'm sweating form carrying that damned piano up out of the cellar and around the house!"

"Organ. A harmonium is a free-reed organ. And a cellar is not a lair." Erik stalked towards the waiting cab. "What drivel."

"Deny it all you care to, you have a penchant for the deep earth. I'll wager you spend most of your days down there in your warren until Mirielle shall be forced to send a servant down to rouse you."

Erik spun with an incredulous look. His thin lips turned down in disgust at the base of the mask. "Warren? I'd prefer lair to warren," he lifted his chin and stared down at Nadir. "I don't know from what magical cloud you pull these ideas. You haven't been smoking opium in that hooka at the restaurant have you?"

Nadir Khan rolled his eyes heavenward as he waited for the tall man to settle upon the seat of the cab. "Not yet, I'm not," he grumbled. "Give me five more days…."


	67. Five Days

**A/N: Happy summer vacation for those of you who get one. Read and Review, please. **

**Chapter Sixty-five: Five Days**

Mirielle arrived back at the Garnier before Erik. She quietly walked the halls until she arrived at box five and sat to wait. Propping an elbow on the chair next to her, she rested her head on her hand and let her eyes drift closed. Her body gradually relaxed, her feet still begging to be free of her shoes.

With her eyes closed, she still saw the parade of things that needed to be taken care of before the wedding. Ursulé and Clement had arranged the caterers, Nadir had handled the invitations for the people who had kept in touch with Erik, she'd seen the priest, had the last fitting of her gown, and now settled down for the string of little accidents and shortcomings that would come tumbling towards her before the event would take place. Like an exuberant puppy, still new in the use of its overlarge paws, some small detail would come stumbling across her path to keep her busily juggling answers.

In two days the girls would arrive and require accommodation. Two nights before the wedding, Nadir had arranged for an evening he referred to as the 'Henna Night', a custom from his country he wanted to gift her with. He'd warned her then, that she should be thinking of how to explain to Erik that he should not see her until the wedding. That wasn't going to be an easy task.

She did have one very important piece of ammunition with which to assure the campaign to keep Erik in the dark about the wedding arrangements would not flounder at the last minute. She had one small, very energetic grandson who would be a perfect companion for his soon-to-be grandpapa. Although a trifle young to be enmeshed in the grand designs of trap doors and pivoting walls, Henri was about the age where every word he heard, he would try to copy, every object he could grasp would be popped into his little mouth, and he could surprise an old bachelor with just how quickly he could roll onto his stomach and take off crawling. The image of Erik trailing behind him, hands reaching to grasp Henri before he could harm himself or something else made her grin.

She did not hear the door open, but did hear a sudden intake of breath. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a girl standing in the doorway looking panicked. "Come in, dear. Is there something I can do for you?"

The girl looked to be at that stage in years where her coltish legs would fill out and her figure settle to womanly curves. She hovered between a colt and a filly, lacking only another year or two before the last of the child would be banished and a young woman step into her place. Her dark eyes searched the box. "Sorry…" She hastily backed out the door, bumping an elbow and nearly dropping a small box.

"It's all right. I was just waiting."

The girl looked down the hallway, her glance slid back to Mirielle. "You're her aren't you? I've seen you here."

"You mean 'her' as in the Velvet Widow? Yes, that would be me. I don't think I've made your acquaintance. My name is Mirielle Montalais."

"M-my name is Jammes." She offered the box at arm's length. "I'm supposed to give this to him."

Mirielle reached for the box, her fingers falling short. "Come in, dear. Is there a message you wish to go with it?" She glanced down at the name of a shop emblazoned on the top.

"No. He'll understand." She pushed the box towards Mirielle and nearly leapt towards the door. Pausing on the threshold she asked, "You really are her, aren't you? The Phantom's lady?"

"I'm more than that. In six days we are getting married."

The girls jaw dropped open. "Dieu! I thought that was just a story."

"Oh, it's been quite a story, but a true one."

The girl fluffed the layers of her tutu. "You like him?" she asked uncertainly.

Mirielle smiled. "He can be quite nice to talk to." The girl didn't look as though she believed her, so Mirielle added, "He's had a difficult life."

The girl's expression changed from curious to thoughtful. "I thought maybe his family left him here. He's been here forever, you know."

"It gets lonely here doesn't it? All these long halls of marble must feel sorrowfully empty late at night."

Jammes bobbed her head. "Sometimes I just want to run away from the dormitory and all the fussing. It's like living with dozens of sisters." She rolled her eyes. "But there is the quiet too, when all of the building talks to you. You hear the whispering in the galleries."

Mirielle smirked. "Quite ghostly?"

Jammes smiled shyly. "No. He just grumbles at you. The building talks very softly in a little voice, no bigger than a mouse. It tells us stories about palaces and the djin."

Mirielle's heart tripped a beat as she pictured Erik weaving one of his magic stories to a group of anxious children in the vast quiet. For all his growling and griping, he had been a constant companion to all of them. "How lovely."

Jammes got to her feet. "Married. Does that mean you will live here, too?"

"I'm not sure, dear. Our plans changed," she glanced at the stage, "after the last performance."

The girl hesitated by the door. "He was very brave that night." She pulled open the door and peaked into the hall. "It was nice to meet you."

"And you as well," Mirielle replied as the girl slipped out of the door.

No sooner had it closed, but Erik appeared, standing by the pillar, his eyes reflected the light from the auditorium. "I see my chocolate pilferer has brought a box for me." He took the box from Mirielle. "May I ply you with chocolates and wine?" A faint smile lingered at the bottom of his mask.

Mirielle stretched. "I must be getting old. The idea of a hot bath and a warm bed sounds very appealing."

Erik stepped around her and settled into the empty chair. "Then I shall run you a bath and tell you about our house."

She sat up resting hand upon her chest. "You found a house? Goodness, Erik! In one day you found a house? I thought you wanted an apartment."

He waved a hand dismissively. "This is imminently more suitable. It was an omen, I tell you. I found a magnificent example of a harmonium in the cellar!" His hands wove through the air as he spoke, betraying his excitement. "I couldn't let it languish there with the chance of damp attacking the cabinet, or the furnace someday affecting the reeds. I had Nadir and the estate agent carry it up for me."

_Oh, dear_, she thought. Nadir had been in an almost ungovernable temper after bringing down the bed. She hoped whatever a harmonium was it wasn't heavy. "You had them carry it up? Did you help?"

He turned a look on her that left very little doubt in her mind that he would have a raised eyebrow under his mask, even though she wasn't sure he had any at all. "I pulled the tarp off of it," he began. "I also directed them where I wanted it situated. I am spending a lofty figure on the property, the least they can do is move an organ for me."

He sat forward, his face close to hers. "I haven't had a kiss since this morning."

"Shall I reward you for accomplishing your task today?" she teased.

He paused, his lips barely above hers. "Would it involve something very wicked?"

Mirielle gasped a second before his mouth covered hers. She received three hard, quick kisses before she felt his hands grasp hers and she was suddenly being pulled to her feet. Erik's fingers danced in the air near the edge of the pillar and it swung open. Stepping back into the dark inside it, his form disappeared, leaving his eyes lit with a mischievous glow.

He led her to the Rue Scribe gate and snatched up what looked like a basket. Helping her into the cab, Mirielle saw the top of a wine bottle and a baguette. He must have arrived in time to pack their dinner before he came up to the box to find her. The cab entered a quiet street and Mirielle sat forward to look out of the window.

At the end the cab pulled to a stop before a tall white house that was capped by what looked like a turret at one end. "We're here," Erik said, his voice sounding as excited as she felt.

Sitting amidst trees and curtained by a stone fence, the house looked like something from a fairy tale. Mirielle let Erik pull her out of the cab as she held on to the door a moment and looked past the iron gate at the house which was streaked by the late afternoon sun with colors of gold and orange.

He whisked her inside, stopping in the entry to pull several candles from the basket and light them. They went up the stairs and then back down with him pointing details out as they went. Excitement kept her so giddy, she clung to his arm.

Erik stopped by a door in the kitchen. "Down there is the cellar. Do you know that Nadir had the audacity to refer to it as my lair?"

At his affronted tone, Mirielle burst out in laughter. "It's all right. Every man should have a place to withdraw from the noise of the house."

He led her to the kitchen door and then out onto a terraced patio. "There is the river."

She couldn't miss the lights across the water. Where the trees thinned, there looked to be a stone path that led back to a lower section of fence. Erik pushed open the gate and held a hand up for her, leading her down a set of steps when the water slid by. "We won't have our own lake anymore," he said.

She did not miss the wistful tone in his voice. She stepped up onto a higher step and looped her arms around his neck. "I'll miss it, too. Are you sure this is what you want? I don't want you to think you must give up your home."

"My home is with you. I went below, into the dark, knowing no one wants to go into the unknown. My happiness relied on other people's fears." He made a noise and ran a hand along her arm. "I don't have to fight against that anymore."

She hugged his neck and laid her cheek against his back. He pulled one of her hands away and turned. "Let's go back in and have our dinner."

By candlelight they drank wine and spread cheese on their baguette. Erik peeled an apple and fed her slices while he talked about finding music for the harmonium, and what he wanted to do with the cellar. After a last glass of wine, he stuck the cork back into the bottle. "Come, we shall have to find a cab. We'll need an early start in the morning."

"What for?"

"The agent will be here at nine for the money for the house, and then we shall have to search for furniture."

Mirielle stood holding the bottle while Erik scooped up the last of their meal into the basket. "Darling, you can't be serious." She indicated the house with a wave of the bottle. "We can't furnish all of this in a day!"

"We need to be ready for the girls."

Mirielle tried hard to close her mouth, but her astonishment kept bubbling to the surface. "It can't be done. You have to find the furniture, and arrange delivery, and then there are linens…."

"Of course," he retorted. "I bought a house, how long can it take to fill it?" He spread his arms wide. "This is Paris, dear girl. City of lights, jewel of the civilized world--."

"And dreadfully busy, with what? about a hundred shops to find furniture in? And what sort? Are you thinking of something contemporary, or one of the Empire periods?" She paused and tsked. "Really, it is an enormous undertaking and hard on the heels of the wedding plans!"

His gaze slid to hers as he drew himself up and looked down at her. "How much more do you have to plan? You tried on your dress today, you talked to the priest with Nadir, and you are going to that hen party."

"Henna," she bit out. "Erik, the girls are arriving soon. I thought we agreed Hilaire and Paul could have the rail car and that Josette could have a nice hotel room." She shook her head. "They really didn't have much of a honeymoon. It would be so nice to put them up in one of those very posh suites. They don't have much money, you know."

Erik waved a dismissive hand. "This will be immeasurably better. You shall see, Mirielle. We can all be quite comfortable here. There won't be dodging back and forth in cabs and waiting on anyone. We can all be here together."

She felt her shoulders slump in helpless defeat. "But we need dishes and food," she stammered, "and coal for heat, and carpets."

He propped a hand on his hip and looked at her. "You are making this sound more difficult than it really shall be. I should think you would be thrilled to have everyone together. You won't even have to hide out at your apartment the night before the wedding; the girls shall be here to assist you getting dressed."

Mirielle clamped her jaws together until her face ached. "Are you doing this so you and I won't be separated for that one night?"

His eyes were barely discernable in the dim light left by the candles. The mask never held any expression to indicate his thoughts. He did commit the twelfth of Nadir's commandments, though. Erik hesitated.

Mirielle could feel her lips compress in a flat line. "Why you lascivious old fox!" She lifted the hand with the bottle and shook it at him. "You are going to harass me into throwing a house together in the space of two days so that you can I don't have to be separated the night before the wedding?" Her words echoed around the dining room.

Erik seemed to grow taller, looming over her. "Don't be ridiculous. It isn't as if you have anything to do before the event. You said the dress was the last of your worries until the girls arrived." He paused with his lips twisting in what looked like a sneer from what she could see. "I thought women loved shopping!"

Taking a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes. "Spending an afternoon looking for a hat is a bit different, Erik." She closed her eyes, seeing a parade of curtains and silver wear preceding plates rolling in the door. She was about to rub her for head and realized she still held the bottle. She dropped her hand, hearing the liquid slosh. The next image that popped into her mind was of herself sitting on the front step and polishing off the bottle. She'd need it to steady her nerves. "Oh, Erik! It is just too much!"

He let go an exasperated breath. "I wouldn't think it of a woman with your stamina."

Her lips were tingling as well as her hands. She gripped the bottle harder to keep it from slipping through her fingers. Her rising anger crested like a wave and left her feeling numb. She raised a shaking hand to her cheek which felt warm.

She couldn't do this. Everything was about to go very wrong. If he demanded she accompany him, she wouldn't be able to get to the jeweler where she was having his ring inscribed. Nadir would be commandeered to take care of the out of town guests, and she'd be frantically getting things set up for the girls' arrival.

Every last day of her forty-one years began to tug at her, adding a sense of hopeless confusion. Her eyes felt prickly, and then tears poured down her cheeks. She heard Erik's footsteps retreating towards the door. "I'll call for a cab."

* * *

Erik dropped the basket on the front steps and started walking towards the cross street at the end of the lane to hail a cab. The temperature was dropping rapidly, tinged with a frosty damp that said there could be freezing rain by morning.

He stood at the end of the sidewalk with his hands jammed into the pockets of his greatcoat. The tails of the coat whipped about his legs in the wind, and more than once, he sat a hand on the brim of his hat to keep it from being blown off. Only silence greeted him along the empty street. His new neighbors would be inside their warm homes finishing their meals and doing whatever it was that average Parisian's did after another long day.

It struck him then that if they invited the girls to the house it would mean Mirielle would once again take her place as the lady of house along with all that entailed. Even if they managed to find an agreeable servant, it would be up to her to keep the cupboards stocked, take care of dinner plans, and sleeping arrangements. Suddenly the comforting presence of their large house started feeling like a yawning pit. No wonder she was growing angry at him! Walking quickly, he reached the door to the house. Inside was very quiet and totally dark.

He paused, eyes adjusting to the dark. "Mirielle?"

A sound like a deep sigh came from his left. He stepped in and cocked his head, listening for her footsteps. This time he detected a rustle of material deeper in the house. He turned towards where the stairs led to the second floor. What sounded like a stair groaning made him stop. In his mind's eye he could picture the height of the steps, and Mirielle sitting upon one. Reaching a hand into the dark, he felt a curl of her hair. He traced her cheek, and the wet path upon it, feeling instantly ashamed that he had overwhelmed her. In his haste to leave the Opera after the fatal events, he hadn't thought it might be too much for her.

"Sweet girl, I am sorry," he whispered against her hair. She made a hiccupping noise and clung to his arm. "Everything will be wonderful. You'll see. You said yourself that wedding's never go smoothly." He traced her chin with his fingers. "I've been a bachelor too long. I didn't think that all of this would add more to your worries."

She nodded and he grasped her hands. "Come, Mirielle. We shall have to walk up a street to find a cab." He coaxed her to her feet, and guided her to the door with an arm around her waist. He left the basket sitting on the door step and locked the door behind them.

As they walked, he held her hand, his thumb rubbing a circle over her knuckles. Since their first moments, he had steadily learned things about her aside from Nadir's teachings. His fiancée enjoyed being teased and liked sunlit kitchens. She thought the lake and his lonely abode were magical more than practical, and his past was something she steadfastly believed happened because of the choices of others. Most importantly, she needed someone to take care of, even at the risk of her own health and happiness.

Erik was acquiring an insight into the mysteries of what women really wanted. He lifted a hand to his hat to keep from losing it and smiled down at Mirielle, watching her hair being toyed with by the wind, and firmly decided that what she really needed was a man to remind her that she was succeeding at life, even if the house didn't look perfect.

Now he understood where Hilaire got her obsessive need to line up the pillows on her sofa.


	68. Four Days

**Chapter Sixty-Six: Four Days**

Once Mirielle was settled in bed, Erik left her room, pulling the door almost closed in case she needed something in the night.

Cognac in hand, he sat before his secretary and pulled out the note he had seen tucked behind the statue of Gluck as he had brought Mirielle home. It was from Percival, one of only a handful he could remember getting from the man since he'd allowed him to call a truce between them and cooperate rather than constantly attempting to catch the elusive Ghost.

The man found in the cellars who was attempting to open the gas valves was close to death. He'd been given a bed in one of the hospitals in central Paris, and interrogated several times before the doctors ran the police off. The police dubbed the group _The Brown Coats_ and had an address where the group met. Percival said they had staked out the apartment, but admitted the remainder of the group would have fled Paris by now. Seemingly, the danger to the Opera was over.

It was good news, but left a hollow feeling in his chest. His mind, ever inquisitive, wanted more answers. Finishing his drink, he carried the glass to the kitchen and dashed off a brief note to Mirielle in case she awoke and found him missing.

Placing his hat on his head, he swirled his greatcoat around himself and fastened it as he stepped into the boat.

* * *

Erik glanced a final time at the street before stepping away from the alley. He moved in silence towards the ground floor apartment door. With ease born of experience, he slid the pick into the keyhole and opened the door.

The window that faced the front of the building had a lace curtain, allowing the light from the lamp along the street to illuminate the room. The smell of tobacco overrode others, though he instinctively felt the rooms were small but well cared for. In her kitchen, he turned up the gas sconce and struck a light. Searching through drawers he found a candle and lit it, turning the gas off.

He moved through the rooms searching for something that would put a name to the woman's face and a reason behind her actions. In a drawer he found records of her family and several small pictures. The photo of a young man lay pressed between pages of a bible. Reading the complicated script by candle he learned that the woman had lost her sons and husband at the wall.

Anxious confusion ruled those days, with Parisians claiming to be part of the militia. Anyone who did not answer quickly enough was executed on the spot. Some died for no other reason than being lost in the shuffle of people attempting to flee the violence. Whole families had been decimated, and some never knew if their loved ones survived or not. Coffins stood row upon row at the wall with the dead, slack faced with half-closed sightless eyes, awaited a claiming relatives. Men and women of all ages had been found guilty of political crimes and dragged off to prisons. The lucky ones were allowed trials and transported to one of the newer French colonies. It might not have been much of a chance, but it was better than an ounce of lead in the brain. Humanity survived, government was restored, and Paris painted over the bloody spots along walls.

It was the sort of murder that sickened him, for death passed with his sharp scythe pitying no one. The whim of a man would mean the death of another, the dissolution of a family that was left to pick up their shattered lives. It happened far too often and raised too many of his own ghosts.

Erik blew out the candle and lay it in the kitchen sink. If the police came back, they might think it was the building owner or a thieving tenant who intruded.

The trip back was quick, for the cold rain turned to sleet, making the streets slick under his shoes. Erik entered through the Rue Scribe gate and made his way home. He shook off his coat before entering the house and hung it where the water dripping from it would not leave a mess on the carpet.

Changing into his robe, he sat and drafted one of the most important letters he had ever written.

* * *

Armand Moncharmin stared at his partner, his exuberance rising. The letter was tacked upon a message board at the end of the dressing rooms. "He's retiring," he sputtered. "At last! We'll survive to see the end of the Phantom!"

Richard grabbed at his monocle and popped it into his eye, pushing his way through the milling cast members to glare at the paper. His lips moved as he read the words.

_It is with deep satisfaction that I announce my retirement. No doubt this letter shall be a cause for a celebration amongst you._

_I am to be married—married! No longer shall I walk your halls, nor correct your myopic management. (You really need to invest in a new curtain! I've noticed some ninny has allowed it to swing too close to the gas lights. That is why Paris is forever acquiring new theaters—the others burned!)_

_Before you start rubbing your hands and planning to spend the rent my box might bring you, I would ask one favor, that it be left in peace. My fiancée enjoys Opera, and I should like to indulge my wife's desire as often as possible. You understand how that goes…etc, etc._

_I shall be vacating the premises at an undisclosed time. My bride and I have a home, and we will require your forbearance to remove what property I still have here to my new habitation. _

_It is my fondest wish that you succeed, that your curtain calls never come to an end, and that some brilliant young composer will step forth to bring new works so you are not left to the devices of that German hack, Wagner. The man is an imbecile. He spends more time chasing other men's wives and fleeing countries over debt than producing opera._

_Yours,_

_Ph. of the O._

_PS-never mind about this month's salary. Buy a new curtain!_

Richard watched his partner and one of the stage hands waltz across the stage laughing. Amongst the crowd were some smiles, but a number of faces wore confused or angry expressions. Someone had brought smelling salts for Madame Giry who sat in a chair, bawling like a cow for her lost calf. A number of the rats stood looking at their teachers, as if there would be an explanation of all of this.

"Well, this is news," he said carefully. Business sense tingling, he calculated the sudden increase in revenue—he could afford a new curtain. But a niggling sense that not everyone was happy about this tugged at him. "If anyone wishes to say anything, I'll be in my office."

The remainder of the day, Remy ushered in one complainant after another. By late afternoon, Richard rubbed his throbbing temples and held up a hand to stop Remy from bringing in the next person. "No more, Remy. I think I see a common thread here. Tell everyone I'll make an announcement later about…all this." He waved a hand over his desk, and then dropped it with a thump.

Armand came in, puffing on a cigar, which jutted from his thin lips. "We are saved! And to think I almost agreed with that reporter. When I think back on the day we met that woman--."

"Shut up, Armand," Richard snapped. "I've just spent the afternoon entertaining several people who are arguing that we cannot let the Phantom go."

Armand nearly shot the cigar from his lips. "What? You cannot be serious!"

"I've never been more serious a day in my life! Have you any notion of how many little 'difficulties' that man has taken over?"

Armand had the grace to adopt a serious demeanor. "What do you mean, 'difficulties'?"

Firman waved a hand over a sheet of paper on his desk. "It appears the Phantom is the Opera's peace officer. There have been several attempts on the girls that were foiled, at least three bouts of drunken fisticuffs along the exterior of the building," he lowered his voice, "by wealthy patrons, no less." He lifted the page, its expanse reflected in his monocle. "Someone was going to borrow two of the horses, one of the lighting crew has a new baby and found an envelope with a hundred francs inside from you know who. Shall I go on? A chorus girl reported her mother was sent a cab for the evening's performance, no charge. Several of the orchestra members have had packages of strings left inside their instrument cases. And someone actually fixed that damnable leak in the pavilion." As his exasperation grew, his voice boomed. "We can't keep up with all of this!"

Armand lifted a thin hand. "Oh, pish! This is nothing."

"Nothing?" Firman felt his face growing warm from the blood building. "It's going to take of staff of dozens…."

Remy entered quietly and cleared his throat. "There is something you need to see."

The managers were passed in the hall by three bouquets of flowers. The door to box five stood wide open, a first in the history of the Opera. Firman stepped inside the small path of carpet that wound into the box. Cards, small boxes, and baskets of flowers covered every available inch of the room, the railing included.

Remy hovered in the hall behind the shocked Armand Moncharmin. "Some are well wishes for the wedding. Most are—personal."

"This is ridiculous," Armand sputtered. "They are still in shock over the attempt on the building, and now this announcement. The people will change their minds."

Firman picked up a card that held a photo of a young family, the children stood with violins. He read the card aloud, "Thank you for your generous gift." He slid it carefully back into the envelope and selected another. A locket fell out, carrying a picture of a very small girl. "On the eve of our loss, we thank you for your generosity." There were dozens of cards from families that thanked a nameless man for offering gifts to people who rarely, if ever, had seen him. Standing in the midst of this outpouring, Firman felt humbled. This great, ponderous monument lost its glimmer, the light replaced by the kindness hidden by the grumblings of an eccentric hermit. He placed the cards back in their chosen spots and left the box.

* * *

Percival dit LaFougère was a creature of habit. He'd learned at an early age that habits lent themselves to structure and structure lent itself to preventing unhappy accidents that might make him late for his work. As a bachelor it was imperative to follow his routine. Shopping was done in the morning. Laundry was dropped off and picked up before one o'clock. He would be dressed for his duties, finished with his meal, and on his way to the station to check in before four o'clock in the afternoon. By five he would be on the Opera's premises, would have stopped in the manager's office for any news, and be on his way for his first circuit of the building assuring that the arrival of the evening's patrons would come off without any problems.

Today he prowled before a desk at the station, looking at the large clock on the wall as he waited for a meeting.

"dit LaFougère?" The officer for the evening watch waved him into his office. It was becoming a nuisance since the attempt with the gas the other night. He'd nearly been late the other evening, something he had never done in his career of twelve years.

Inside the cluttered office sat another man in Guard uniform. Percival chewed on his lip to keep from swearing aloud. It was that Captain who wanted to haul in Erik for questioning. The hope for an uneventful evening was drawing more remote. Percival acknowledged the Guard with a nod.

"This is Captain Daubigeon. He's seeking out the man on the Opera stage from that night. I want you to bring the man in for questioning."

Percival lifted a hand, brushing his perfectly waxed mustache. "That will not be possible, sir. I don't think you understand who you are dealing with."

"You see," Daubigeon sneered. "I'm not surprised there was an attempt upon the president with this sort of lax security…"

Percival clenched his fists, wishing he'd met Daubigeon in a dark alley rather than his commander's office.

The commander fixed Daubigeon with an icy stare. "Officer dit LaFougère is a decorated veteran with an exemplary record. Percival," he said, settling back in his desk chair. "Why don't you take the Captain to the Garnier and show him what he's up against?"

Percival smiled tightly at Daubigeon's back as the man stomped out of the office. With any luck, Erik would not have disabled all of his traps yet.

* * *

Mirielle pulled off her gloves as she approached the gate on the Rue Scribe. She'd cut short what would be her last quiet visit with Catherine and Ursulé to be home in time to meet with Erik.

The gate swung upon easily. Resting her left hand against the wall she counted twenty steps, and then felt the small niche where Erik had left her a lantern. Lighting it in the faint light from the street, she bent down and entered the door that led to the third cellar. Winding through the maze of stacked props and crates, she headed for the stairs that descended.

Two more cellars and she'd find her way to the lake and Erik waiting to ferry her across. Despite feeling tired, her steps were light. She'd be with Erik again. They'd chat about the new house, and confirm arrangements to meet the girls tomorrow. She stopped at the top of the stairs to the fifth cellar, hearing a man's voice.

"Throw the lever!"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." That was Percival's voice!

"I'm giving you an order," warned the baritone.

_Goodness!_ Mirielle turned down the lantern. She scurried back from the landing on tip-toe. Booted feet approached the stairs and began stomping upwards. Below came the raspy twang of metal and squeaking gears that ended in a _thump_.

"What's that one doing…look it's moving…"

"You really shouldn't stand…," Percival advised, a split second before a sharp metal _ting_ stopped his warning and a heavy wooden thump echoed through the room. "I tried to warn them."

Mirielle stepped out from the shadows as Percival trudged up the stairs. "Not more intruders!"

Percival looked shamefaced. "Not really. More like pests even the rat catcher couldn't remove."

She looked around the room. "Where are they?"

He smiled, looking boyish and charming. "About to visit the sewers."

* * *

Erik heard the first howls and snatched up his jacket. Stepping into the boat, he glided across the lake with swift strokes. To his amazement, Mirielle appeared on the other side. "Are you all right?"

"Of course, dear man," she said. "You remember that Guard on the stage who wanted to arrest you?" She let her question drift off into the silence. Another howl echoed over the serene quiet of the lake. "Percival sends his regards."

Erik examined the wicked grin on his fiancée's face. "You are starting to enjoy this, aren't you?"

She stepped forward and slid her hand along his shoulder to his neck. Erik allowed her to pull his lips to hers. "It comes from taking up with the likes of you, Monsieur Ghost."

**A/N: Thanks so much reviewers! **


	69. Three Days:Important Details

**Chapter Sixty-seven: Three Days…or Important Details**

Erik stood looking over the array of baskets and cards in Box Five. He wished they hadn't gone to the trouble, but it made him feel vindicated in many ways. Those people who scurried behind curtains and in back costume rooms were as faceless as he was. Their thanks and congratulations meant all the more because they acknowledged him as a part of their world.

He sat aside a basket of flowers and started leafing through the cards. One made him lift it closer to his eyes to be sure he read the name correctly. Firmin had sent a card? Erik slid a finger though the envelope and unfolded the page.

_Monsieur,_

_We offer our congratulations on your recent engagement. I do believe that we could afford to keep you employed at a reduced salary for a select number of hours, preferably during performances._

_It appears you have been filling in as more than an artistic critic. After the foiled attempt of the last performance of Aida, we believe that increased security is important to the welfare of our artists and patrons. At the very least, you should be available to train a new group of security people._

_Yours, etc.,_

_F. Richard_

Scrawled across the bottom was another message:

_I am doing this under duress, but must agree with my partner! We are already experienced some problems of a delicate nature in the Foyer de Danse after the last performance._

_A. Moncharmin._

"Delicate?" Erik mused. "Now my managers have the unenviable task of booting out some drunken aristocrat who fancies himself a Lothario? It was so much simpler when an unseen hand carried out the work." He folded the page and pushed it into his pocket. He would have to see if Mirielle would agree to this.

* * *

Looking over the suit coat in the mirror, Erik studied the small cravat pin with its amethyst. "Are you sure this will complement her dress?"

Nadir cleared his throat, and produced a square of lavender silk from his pocket. "Absolutely. Compare it to this."

Erik took the material and laid it along his lapel. The cravat pin flashed brightly. "It's just a tiny bit more purple…" He watched Nadir shaking his head in the mirror.

"It will be fine, Erik. Remember, everyone is _supposed_ to look at the bride."

"Yes, but it's the details that are important." Erik allowed his eyes to stray to the dark silk over his face. "You know how I am about details."

Nadir got up from the chair and came to stand behind Erik's shoulder. "Have you decided about the mask?"

Erik felt a flutter begin in his stomach, and sweep up his chest. "No."

"May I tell you something?"

Erik removed the pin, keeping his eyes averted from Nadir's. "Telling you no has never stopped you."

"You make that woman happy, although Allah knows why with your temperaments. She loves you and will continue to do so even if you do not remove the mask."

"That isn't what I'd expected you to say."

"It's true in this case. She will never complain, but she will be saddened by your refusal."

"Back to the topic of honesty between lovers?"

"Falling in love is simple. Staying in love through the small hurts and the struggles of life is where the true power of love shines. She will carry that small hurt with her everyday of her life."

Erik had prepared a cynical retort, but felt it wilt in the face of Nadir's words. He learned by leaps and bounds the intricacies of what made Mirielle happy and what she quietly tried to cover from him. The night at the house when they argued had been a rare glimpse at how stressful all of the preparations were becoming for her.

He pulled off the cravat and carefully folded it. "I do not place my trust lightly, Nadir. You of all people should know that about me."

"Yes, trust takes time. I'm saying don't be in a hurry Erik. She will wait, and you will both know when it is right."

"You surprise me," Erik replied. "I would think you would have insisted I show her before the wedding."

Nadir stroked his mustache and shrugged. "We are approaching the final hours, Erik. Things are likely to go awry."

Erik grunted at the man's exaggeration. "It will be a church, a bride, a groom, and a small contingent of family. What could possibly go wrong?" He did not fail to see a slight shift to Nadir's gaze. With sudden clarity, Erik realized he'd been lead down a garden path.

"Nadir?" He turned to fold his arms over his chest and glare down at the Persian. "Both you and Mirielle appear most distressed. It doesn't have anything to do with wedding jitters, I take it."

"Well…it does." Nadir spoke with conviction.

"Whose?"

"Your wedding." Nadir lifted his hat from his lap and got to his feet.

Erik sighed heavily. "Don't be dim. I realize that. My question is what detail it is that has you both in such dire straits?" The longer that Nadir stared blankly at him, the deeper the dilemma appeared. "Just spit it out, man! The girls are arriving by train and we need to get them settled."

Nadir turned his hat in his hands. "You remember those invitations you kept in the spare bedroom?"

Silence lay between them like a ponderous block of granite. "Oh, hell," Erik replied as he swept his hat onto his head and stomped out of the shop. "You do realize that some of those countries are ready to go to war."

Nadir grinned sheepishly. "Let's hope the first shots aren't fired in Paris."

* * *

Catherine Chislova pulled her sables closer about her shoulders. France was not locked in snow as Russia was, but was suffering a blustery and thoroughly wet winter. The traveling had been exhausting. Her companion, Galina Naryshkina, sat with her head nodding over a book. Across in the facing seats were her guards, Prince Alexei Sviatoslav and his cousin Vasili Romanov.

The men played cards and amused themselves by terrorizing the train's conductors and attempting to seduce women in other cars. Catherine rolled her eyes at their antics while Galina had flushed with embarrassment.

Catherine asked, "The marriage is to take place on Saturday at Le Madeleine. Where did you say we were staying?"

Alexei opened his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. "We have two suites at the Hotel de L'athénée. We should be arriving at the Gare Saint Lazar station. It was the closest to the Opera and the church according to the Ambassador.

Catherine laughed, a rich contralto. "Of course. The Ambassador would remember." She noted Galina's questioning gaze. "I spent my first night with Nicholas in that hotel. His guards were beside themselves when the two of us disappeared."

"There will be no disappearances this trip, I trust?" Vasili Romanov arched a dark brow. He had light blue eyes and coal black hair and a devastating smile.

"No," Catherine sighed. "I've come to see the man who helped me snare a Grand Duke get married. He'll be way too occupied to perform any more tricks like that."

Alexei was the opposite of his cousin in temperament as well as looks, but handsome and charming none the less. "Who is this man?"

Catherine looked out of the window and smiled. "His name is Erik."

* * *

Hilaire sat with Henri on her lap, listening to a conductor call for the last passengers, while Paul went to retrieve their luggage. She scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for her mother. Although the trip was not tedious, Henri was growing fussy. He needed a quiet spot to take a nap.

The train at the platform began to move. A blast of steam skittered across the top of the concrete and a whistle split the air. One moment there was no one, the next the steam parted and there stood her Mother and Erik. "Mama!"

Mirielle beamed as she rushed to her daughter. "Oh, Hilaire. I'm so glad to see you."

Erik stood behind her, a smile played at the bottom of the dark mask that covered his face. He tipped his hat. "How are you, Hilaire?"

She smiled at her mother's fiancé. "Just fine." She hugged her mother and stepped towards Erik. "Henri's tired, but would you like to hold him?"

Erik's gloved hands reached eagerly and Hilaire slid her son into his future Grandpapa's arms. Safely tucked away, Henri glanced at the new faces. "Gandmamam?"

Mirielle placed a kiss upon his cheek. "Yes, my beautiful boy. Grandmamma and Grandpapa." She linked her arm though her daughter's. "Where is Paul?"

Erik nodded towards the end of the platform. "He's bringing the luggage."

"Wonderful," Mirielle replied. "Let's get you settled. I'm sure you'd like to relax now that you're here."

Erik joined Paul and directed a porter to bring the luggage to the railcar. He and Mirielle had already stocked it with food and fired up the heaters. Stepping inside, Erik handed Paul a key for the door. "You should have no trouble finding cabs just past the gates. The church is just a few blocks from here."

Paul grinned at his future father-in-law. "Getting the wedding jitters yet?"

Erik's strange tawny eyes rested on him. "Why should I? Nadir has helped Mirielle, and I believe everything is in the ready."

"Weddings always have some complications. Someone's late, or the food isn't ready, or the bride's dress gets torn. I've hardly been to one yet that went off without an incident. Hil and I went to one last year where the in-laws got drunk and started a fight."

"Good heavens," Erik mused.

"It's different in the country. You invite everyone over and they get so drunk they usually sleep in your yard till the next morning."

Erik slid a glance towards Mirielle. "That won't be happening in Paris. We may leave you at the reception if you drink too much."

Hilaire joined them. "Not us, we have Henri to watch over. Any celebrating we do will be here, and after he is asleep." She raised her hands, and Erik relinquished Henri. "Let's get someone a place to nap, shall we?"

Mirielle grinned at Paul. "We left you some champagne. Make sure you do celebrate. I have a question for you."

"What?"

"Would you give me away at the church?"

Her son-in-law broke out in a pleased smile. "I'd be honored."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Paul. I've always looked to you to be the one to take care of the family after Henri died. If just seems fitting that you would give away the bride."

"Is there going to be a rehearsal?"

"Yes, tonight. Erik and I thought you might like to meet us at the church and then go to a restaurant. The practice will be at seven, so Josette and Radegonde will be here by then."

"Where is Josette going to be?" Hilaire came to stand by her husband.

"We thought we'd give them a little honeymoon," Mirielle answered. "They'll be in a hotel not three blocks from here." She glanced at Erik. "What was the name of it?"

"The Hotel de L'athénée."

* * *

Katie Macbean tipped the porter. Once her door closed she sat on the end of the room's bed and listened to his retreating footsteps outside her door. Pulling off her hat, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

"What now?" she asked her reflection. What did people do when they arrived early for a celebration, and had time to waste?

Only months before, her world was full of smiling children and a noisy household. Alice, dear, sweet Alice, had brought her from Britain to Germany. Third daughter of Britain's Queen Victoria, Alice had come to Darmstadt to wed Louis IV, the Grand Duke of Hesse and by Rhine and raise her children in a loving home.

Alice's daughter Victoria had complained of a sore throat in November, passing on diphtheria to her family. Marie, the youngest had died, choking to death. Alice had exhausted herself caring for her child, and soon succumbed.

December was a terrible month. Mother and daughter were laid rest side by side. As they closed the family mausoleum, Katie had gone back to the house to help with the rest of the family. Mourning her long time friend, she had hung on until it was evident the Duke would be required to marry again. Another wife would not look fondly upon the personal friend of the former Duchess. When the envelope from France arrived, Katie packed her bags.

She looked over at her beaded reticule. Inside was the invitation she had never thought to see. Her mind took her back to a harried Alice, searching the Opera box for a broach that must have fallen from her dress. It came to the Princess's hotel the next morning in a curious envelope with distressed script flowing in red ink over the surface. Thinking she might thank her benefactor, Alice insisted they go back to the Opera.

They had received curious looks from the managers until they laid eyes upon the note. They tried valiantly to dissuade her from searching for the person who signed his name 'O. G.' Alice had smiled, her demure smile and insisted. The men nearly went into fits, but grimly explained she might find this person in Box Five.

Taking their seats, Katie was aware after the house lights went down of a tall man in a mask standing near the box's door. Covering a yelp of surprise she rose to her feet to warn the Princess, who blithely turned and offered her hand. "You are my benefactor, I believe?"

He bowed deeply, his eyes reflecting strangely within the deep recesses of the black silk. "Your Highness, it is my pleasure." He bowed again. "My name is Erik."

Katie sat listening to the Princess and the masked man as they sat together and watched the performance. With the ease born of royalty the Princess laughed quietly and asked polite questions of the strange man whose voice should have put him on the stage. When intermission came, he excused himself, claiming her escorts would arrive shortly. Once the performance resumed, he appeared again.

As the last of the curtain calls came to an end, the Princess offered her hand once again. "Thank you, Erik. This evening has been most enjoyable. I shall never watch a performance of _Louisa Miller_ again without thinking of your charming conversation. Someday I may return to Paris. Shall I alert you so that you may call?"

He chuckled, a deep sound that made Katie blink and wonder why her toes suddenly tingled!

"Your Highness, I would be delighted to accompany you to another performance. My address is here," he lifted a hand indicating the box. "Address it to the Opera Ghost."

Katie knew she must have gawked at the man before the Princess caught her attention and asked her to find her escort. Katie dipped in a curtsy. Glancing towards the Ghost, she saw he had literally disappeared. Alice left the box with a serene smile.

And now she, Katie Macbean of Ireland, close friend to Alice Princess of Britain and Duchess of Hesse and by Rhine, was returning the favor of that long ago night. Sadly, she would inform Erik that the Princess would not be attending any more operas.


	70. Evening Emeralds

**Author's Note: Catherine Chislova and Katie MacBean are contemporaries of this time period. I bent the rules of engadgement so to speak to include them in the story. A picture of Catherine can be found by searching Wikipedia.  
**

**Chapter Sixty-eight: Evening Emeralds**

By three o'clock, Erik and Mirielle were standing on the train platform once again, watching the shunting engine void steam as it took up the track towards the station. It drifted to a stop, the doors along its length opened to allow the conductors to stand watch over passengers and remind them to watch their step.

Erik could feel Mirielle's excitement as she clung to his arm. He tipped his hat lower and waited as the majority of the passengers rushed past. Mirielle raised a hand and waved.

Radégonde assisted Josette down from the steps. They both gaped at the station. "Goodness," Mirielle whispered, "they only need a stem of hay in their mouth to proclaim them as provincials."

"Mama!" Josette waved as she hurried towards her mother. "Are you excited? You aren't getting nervous are you?" She stepped up to Erik and brushed a kiss upon his mask. "Hello, Erik." She spun back to her mother. "We have a hotel room? Will Hilaire be near? Oh, Mama! Paris! There are so many things I wish to see while we are here."

Radégonde shook Erik's hand explaining, "It's her first time."

"You've never been to Paris?" Erik was incredulous.

Josette's ebullient smile wilted. "We were going to vacation here once, but Papa became ill."

"At least there will be happy times this trip," Radégonde promised.

"Absolutely," Erik interjected. "Let us show you to the hotel. We are to rendezvous with Hilaire and Paul for an early dinner."

Catching a pair of cabs, they met outside the Hotel de L'athénée. Erik and Mirielle sat watching people walk through the lobby downstairs while Josette and Radégonde took a moment to freshen up in their room.

Another short cab ride and they were deposited on the sidewalk in front of _Chartier. _Despite the drawn curtains, the door was held open by a smiling Hughes Duchesne who now sported a pencil thin mustache.

"Ah, Hughes. How are you?" Mirielle turned, allowing the young man to help her remove her coat.

"Good evening, Mesdames and Monsieur," he replied. "Some of your party has already been seated."

Erik escorted Josette to a long banquet table and began the introductions. Catherine Jardaux sat next to Nadir, who stood and shook hands with Radégonde. Across the table were Ursulé with Clément Cambin, who stood and shook Erik's hand, examining the mask with a grave expression.

Hilaire and Paul arrived, and once more there was a round of hand shaking until the ladies were seated. Little Henri sat on his mother's lap, hands on the table cloth. He looked up with large eyes as one of the waiters offered him a sliver of bread. He took it in cautious fingers and held it up to his mother.

Erik took his seat at the head of the table, watching with no small satisfaction at the happy faces and animated chatter. He had progressed from a solitary diner to the soon to be head of a family in a matter of months. The woman who sat smiling next to him had brought all of this into his life.

With an ease he still did not understand, everyone had accepted him without question. Hilaire was the only one who balked at first. Catherine, Paul and even Ursulé had apparently never questioned Mirielle's choice. They knew her, as he had come to, as a generous hearted woman. Not for the first time in recent months, he silently thanked God for the matchmaker and Nadir who had prodded him ceaselessly.

Diner arrived, served with a degree of panache by the staff who happily indulged the group. Stomach full, wine flowing, and the conversation turning to the upcoming nuptials, Erik found himself smiling. There was a large degree of satisfaction in becoming the patriarch. Not the least of it was taking Henri from his mother's lap so she could eat her dinner.

He took the boy on a short walk around the premises, even stopping to introduce his grandson to the staff. Back at the table, he held him with his small head resting on shoulder. It wasn't long before the child fell asleep. It brought such a sense of peace that Erik understood why grandparents spoiled their grandchildren. Even in the short time they had been apart, Henri had already grown and picked up more words. Moments like this were precious.

Erik glanced speculatively at Josette. Mirielle had told him that Josette had thought she might be pregnant once. He had ordered a hotel suite for them at the end of a hall, and made sure a bucket with champagne would be awaiting them by a small fireplace. Letting nature take its course with the help of the trip to Paris, perhaps he would have another grandchild to look forward to.

Nadir rose from the table. "A toast to the bride and groom." Erik groaned inwardly, but raised his glass. Mirielle caught his eyes, looking shy and seductive at the same time. Nadir went on to explain the rehearsal at the church in the afternoon and that the respective groups would be dinning separately tomorrow night. "The ladies will be indulging in a custom from my country—the henna night, while the gentlemen shall be giving Erik a send off at the _Alborz_.

"Don't worry, Mirielle," Nadir continued. "We will try our best not to scare Erik off."

Handing Henri off to Paul, Erik whispered to Mirielle. "I'd much rather attend your party than sit with a lot of morose men."

She gave his hand a squeeze under the tablecloth. Smiling wickedly, she addressed Nadir, "Just make sure he's at the church on time."

Erik tamped down a surge of annoyance. Tonight would be their last night together. After the rehearsal, he wouldn't be allowed to see her until the wedding. It was an annoying custom. It irritated him that a hot water bottle and a night with the men was all he had to look forward to until the ceremony.

At least they had tonight.

A sting of cabs arrived, and the guests began to split up. Erik stood at the curb, offering a hand to Mirielle. They sat together in the cab, snuggling close.

* * *

Josette accepted a flute of champagne from her husband. The room was warm and Radégonde had turned down the gas sconce, leaving a light by the bed glowing. "Did you leave instructions for a wake up call?"

"I forgot." He brushed a hand down her spine. "I'll be right back."

As soon as the door closed Josette hurriedly began stripping off her dress. She slid a soft pink satin night gown on and brushed her hair out, arranging it over one shoulder. Perched on the edge of the bed, she sighed and waited for her husband's return.

She listened to footsteps trail up and down the hall. Muffled voices approached the door and then past. Elbow on the footboard and chin on her hand, she looked around the room and took another sip of the champagne. "So this is Paris?" The door burst open, causing her to start.

"Where is my sketch pad?"

Josette watched her husband rifle through their bags. "What do you need--?"

"There is this pair of fantastic looking gentlemen down stairs in some sort of uniform." He placed a quick kiss upon her forehead. "I'll be right back."

Alone once again, she got up and headed for the champagne.

* * *

Catherine Chislova smirked as Alexei and Vasili posed on either side of the fireplace mantel in the lobby. The young man who had approached them was furiously sketching their likeness in a chair across from her. He was tall and slender and had the most elegant hand motions as he drew.

She lifted her sable muff, and brushed along its sleek furred surface. Galina had begged to return to the room before they left for dinner. Knowing that girl, she had left something superfluous and absolutely forgettable behind. Catherine reminded herself to teach that young woman to loosen up and enjoy the trip. She glanced up as a dark shape appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Taking in a breath, she called out, "Katie? Is that you?"

The other woman turned in surprise. "Oh, my God. Catherine?"

Catherine patted the seat of the chair next to her. "Katie, what are you doing in Paris?"

"I'm here for the wedding. Is that why you came?"

The artist stopped abruptly. "The Vachon wedding?"

Galina arrived, to stop and wonder why all of them were staring at each other.

* * *

Erik pushed open the door to box five. Mirielle stepped inside, silently taking in the array of offerings. She turned to him with a smile. Resting her hand on his lapel she whispered, "I told you you have become a good man. Look at how these people feel about you."

"It's just a few things I've done over the years," Erik grumbled. "Nothing important."

"It was important enough to them to say thank you."

"One of them is from the managers," he pointed out the card. "They are having second thoughts about my retirement. I believe they wish me to guard the Opera for them, on a part-time basis only."

"Really? And how do you feel about it?"

He looked over the box. "I'm not sure."

"Does it mean we can keep our box?"

"I believe that could be one of the stipulations."

"We would get to see the operas, wouldn't we? Or do they just wish you to circulate the building?"

"I don't know. I believe the events with that woman have pointed out how precarious a position they might find themselves once again. A small sliver of the ugliness of reality came skirting in under their doors."

"Let's go home," she replied with a saucy smile. "I was looking forward to one last assignation as a single woman."

"Secret meetings? I'm your man."

"Yes, you are."

* * *

Josette pondered banging her husband in the head with the ice bucket, or perhaps the champagne bottle. She let the flute she had emptied once again dangle from her fingers. "You fell in love with an artist? What did you expect? The whole world is something for him to draw!"

She heard footsteps in the hall but couldn't bestir herself to straighten her robe or arrange her hair. If her husband wanted to draw some stuffy old man in a uniform rather than make passionate love to his wife, then he'd just have to be disappointed that she wasn't concerned about her appearance. She heard the key in the lock, and lifted her chin. Radégonde Tellier was about to receive the cold-shoulder from his wife for keeping her waiting!

Glaring at the door, Josette saw a silhouette in the hall behind her husband's shoulder and let out a squeak. Snatching at the front of her robe, she closed it over her legs. The man standing behind her husband ran appreciative dark eyes over those body parts.

"Excuse me," he purred in a thick accent. Gold braid and a dark material studded with shinning buttons outlined his impressive shoulders.

"Excuse me," she replied. "I was expecting my husband."

The man stepped forward, a hand lifted in a white glove. Josette offered her hand and the man placed a kiss upon her fingers. "Vasili Romanov, at your service."

He had the sort of eyes that a woman could spend hours looking into, deep into as he moved…. Josette blinked away the image of dark hair, tangled limbs and snowy sheets. "How do you do?"

Vasili stood. "May I introduce my cousin, Prince Alexei Sviatoslav."

Josette gaped. The blonde giant was every bit as devastating. "Good evening?" She slid a glance at Radégonde.

A woman swept in, wearing a dark gown. Even in the faint light of the sconces, jewels around her neck at her ears scintillated with orange and yellow lights. She clucked her tongue. "Men have no sense of propriety! I'm Catherine. I understand you will be Erik's step-daughter?"

Josette briefly wondered if her mouth was hanging open. She straightened her shoulders. "Yes. You know Erik?"

The woman seated herself upon the bed. "I used to dance at the Russian Imperial Ballet. My partner and I had a falling out and I fled to Paris hoping to punish him. What I did not know is that Nicholas had fallen in love with me and pursued me here. If it weren't for Erik, we would not have met here in this very hotel."

"Goodness."

"Very much so," Catherine replied with a wink. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Madame Tellier. Would you care to breakfast with us tomorrow?"

Josette turned to her husband for help. "We would be delighted."

* * *

Katie stood in the hallway with the distressed Galina. "It's all right," she assured the girl. "Catherine is quite good with people." She stepped back as Vasili and Alexei filled the hall. Catherine came out of the room last.

"Come on, Katie," Catherine took her arm. "Let's have a late supper. You and I haven't seen each other since—since when?"

* * *

Josette let out a gusting breath. "Radé? What was all that about?"

"They are guests at the wedding. I think Nadir sent invitations to a lot of Erik's former pupils. This is fantastic."

"Fantastic? Radé, I'm sitting in might nightgown," she hissed. She placed a hand over her eyes. "My God, I hope they weren't shocked."

Radégonde sat down beside her, brushing her dark hair from her forehead. "Beauty is never shocking."

"I wasn't decent," she protested.

"It's a hotel room, Josette. They understand."

"Understand what?"

He kissed her temple, his long fingers sliding under her chin. "They understand a woman waiting for her husband."

"About that," she bristled. He silenced her with a deep kiss.

"Your lips taste like champagne."

"I drank two glasses."

"And you waited for me?"

"Yes," she admitted, feeling her resolve melting.

"I want you to close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Because," he replied, picking up her hand and moving it to her face. "Promise not to look."

"All right. What are you doing?" Josette waited as she heard him moving about the room. The bed shifted, and something cold rested in her lap.

"Open our eyes."

As her fingers slid away, she saw a dark velvet box. Inside was a necklace with small diamonds and a larger Evening Emerald. "Oh, Radé."

"Do you like it?"

She lifted the box. "You know I do!" She sobered and examined his face. "Can we afford this?"

"Yes. I sold two paintings."

"Oh, my God!"

"Erik's friend Nadir talked to a gallery. They'll take more." He carefully took the necklace out of the box and fastened it around his wife's throat.

In the passionate hours that followed, Erik would get his wish, for Josette and her husband decided it was time to have a baby.


	71. One Day

**Chapter Sixty-nine: One Day**

Mirielle sat on the sofa, listening to Josette recount her breakfast meeting with a group who were attending the wedding. With a blush Josette whispered to her Mama, "We didn't use anything last night."

Mirielle smiled at her daughter. "Erik will be thrilled. You had best be prepared for a doting Grandfather."

"Would you be happy as well?"

"Jo, you know I will be. What is important is if you will be happy. Children are a joy, but a trying one at times." She patted her arm. "Don't be upset if nothing happens right away."

A knock interrupted the conversation. "That should be Nadir."

Catherine swept through the room. "I'll answer it." She paused before the door, a hand running over her hair. She opened the door, stepping back. "Good afternoon, Monsieur Khan."

Nadir's eyes sparkled. "Please, call me Nadir." He stepped inside, removing his hat. "You are looking lovely this afternoon."

Josette slide a quick glance at her mother. "Evidently weddings rub off?"

"One would assume," Mirielle whispered.

"Good afternoon, ladies." Nadir smiled. "Are you finding your hotel comfortable?"

"Yes, thank you." Josette replied. "Some of the other guests are there."

Nadir looked intrigued. "Really? Who?"

"Catherine Chislova. We had breakfast with her. She came all the way from Russia."

"_Allah_. Do you know who she is?"

Josette looked surprised. "No. She just introduced us to her companions. One is a Prince."

Nadir waved a hand. "He's small turnips…."

"Potatoes," Catherine corrected.

"Oh, excuse me," Nadir corrected. "Catherine is the mistress of the Grand Duke Nicholas—the Tsar's brother. She has an escort?"

"Ah, yes." Josette looked abashed. "Two men and a young lady."

"She must be travelling incognito, then. I doubt the Duke would be happy otherwise."

Josette stammered, "I—I didn't curtsy or anything."

"Good!" Nadir assured her. "That would draw attention to her. You did very well."

"Another woman joined us, an Irish lady."

"Irish? I did not send any invitations to Ireland. Can you describe her?"

"She introduced herself as Katie MacBean. Catherine said something about Alice not coming." Josette turned to her mother. "Erik knows a lot of women."

"It is understandable. We are the other sex on the planet aren't we? Besides the opera is filled with dancers and singers along with all the women who work behind the scenes. Dozens of laundry staff and seamstresses are needed. If I hadn't toured the premises with Erik, I would have never known so many people worked to put the productions on."

"That is who are lot of those invitations were from," Nadir added. "People who came as pupils and left as performers. Some of them were just fellow denizens of the building. A few were famous visitors."

"I'd like to thank you, Nadir for helping me extend invitations to them." Mirielle accepted his hand and got to her feet. "Are we all ready to leave?"

Nadir escorted them downstairs to a cab, glancing at his watch after he climbed in and closed the door. In less than twenty-four hours, Erik would be a married man, praise Allah. Perhaps things were destined to go smoothly.

* * *

Mirielle felt as if she had stepped into a palace from the Arabian Nights. While the Al-Hawani home looked like a cookie-cutter copy of the row of houses it sat in, the interior opened to opulent textures and colors that dazzled the eye. Reem Al-Hawani was a beautiful woman who introduced her daughter Thuraiya as she invited the group inside. Dark haired, with serene eyes, both women looked astonishing in their traditional headscarves and embroidered dresses from their homeland of Arabia. She introduced Hala Mourad from Egypt whose two daughters Dalia and Samira shook her hand. With friendly smiles they encouraged the ladies to find a seat and began explaining the Henna Night to their visitors.

Pride in their customs was evident, and the two older women immediately pressed Mirielle into a simple caftan and seated her with pillows below her feet. Reem showed the group the small cones of henna they had mixed the day before. "It is to make the bride beautiful for her husband, and to give her one last night among the women of her family for a happy occasion she will treasure."

As Reem and Hala began painting the designs upon Mirielle's hands, the younger women brought out dishes of food and drinks for the party. They explained the symbols and even encouraged the other women to have a decoration put on. "It's all part of the celebration," Dalia told them. "The bride's friends and female relatives usually have smaller ornamentation done, or the coloring of the fingernails. It lasts for about two weeks if it is cared for."

"I'll try," Josette exclaimed. "I'm married to an artist. He will be so intrigued by this."

Dalia grinned. "Then we should give him something special to look at!"

While Mirielle sat watching to smooth and intricate design painted upon her skin, the conversation naturally turned to men.

"My Hamza!" Reem rolled her eyes. "He's a wonderful husband, but I don't understand how he can run a shop and not know where to find his clothes."

Hala explained how her husband was always in a hurry to go places, and Josette recounted her embarrassment the night before. "I don't think men even think before they do things."

"Isn't refreshing to know that all husbands are the same?" Mirielle said.

"Yes, but doesn't that mean all wives are as well?" Hala asked.

"True, but we are the smarter ones. We put our shoes where we can find them," Mirielle replied.

The ladies chatted and burst into fits of giggles as Catherine Jardaux attempted feeding Mirielle fig cake while her hands were being worked on.

"Mmm," Mirielle sighed. "That is delicious. Are you ladies coming to the wedding?"

Reem and Hala looked at one another. "Did Nadir say anything to you?"

"You should come," Mirielle told them. "Nadir is having the reception at a local restaurant. There will be plenty of room at the church. Unless you have other plans."

"I'll ask my husband. I think we would be happy to attend."

* * *

Erik sat back on the divan that filled the three sided alcove of the _Alborz_. Paul exhaled a cloud of the sweet smoke from the hookah, Radégonde spooned up more of the _Morasah-Polow_, and Clément Cambin stared open mouthed at Nadir and a tall, burly looking man in an apron.

"Go with him!" Nadir insisted.

"To the kitchen?" Clement asked.

"Yes, yes. He wishes to show you how they prepare the dishes."

Clément grinned. "If I'm not back in an hour, just come get me!" He got to his feet and followed the other man to the area of the restaurant where a beaded curtain hung. The smells of frying meats and exotic spices wafted from the kitchen. Waiters sauntered to tables to heaping dishes that were as colorful to the group as they were intriguing."

"What's that one?" Radégonde pointed to another dish in the collection on the table top.

"It's called _Borani Esfanaaj_. It's fried spinach with yogurt, onions, and a touch of garlic." Erik offered him a rounded piece of bread. "Scoop it up on this. It's really very good if you like spinach."

Radégonde winced. "My mother always boiled it. The house stank of it and it looked like—well it looked slimy."

"You'll like it this way, then," Erik encouraged. "They don't crucify their food as we do. The cook it just enough to seal in all those wonderful spices."

Paul sat back with a sigh. "This is fabulous. Hil is going to be so jealous. I feel like a king."

Nadir grinned. "The women will be trying just as many dishes. Believe me, it is a bride's chance to relax before the nuptials among her friends. They will be so stuffed they will hardly want breakfast tomorrow."

"What else do they do? Hil was a bit reluctant." He lifted a shoulder in a mock shrug. "She never wants to try anything new. I think she's afraid of doing something wrong and embarrassing herself."

Radé paused between bites. "Jo is adventurous."

"Lucky you," Paul mused. "Hilaire can never make up her mind. One day, she stacks the dishes just so. The next, I get taken to task if they are stacked that way. She's gone and changed her mind and leaves me wondering what thing will be changed tomorrow."

Nadir took a drink. "Well, Erik? What annoying habit does Mirielle have?"

Erik slid a glance around the restaurant. Leaning forward he said in a low voice. "I wouldn't call it a habit, but she has literally taken over my water closet. There are all sorts of potions, powders, and little bottles around, and that is fine. What annoys me is her hair pins. The things find their way down the sink drain and I must fish them out."

Clément rejoined the group, bringing a dessert with him. "You really have to taste this. It's called _Ice-in-Heaven_."

"What bad habit does Ursulé have?" The men sat waiting.

"She starts talking and then turns away. It leaves me asking her over and over what she said. So, she starts again and then turns to point or something and I still can't hear her."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Erik observed.

A round of snorts came from his companions. "He's new to this," Nadir told them. "The problem," Nadir began, "is that Ursulé will be offended because she believes that Clément isn't listening to her."

Nods and brooding faces gave Erik enough assurance that Nadir had hit the nail upon the head. "I see. Is that as bad as when they ask if they look fat?"

Radé looked faintly green, Paul screwed his eyes closed, and Nadir and Clément squirmed in their chairs. "That one is the worst," Nadir replied.

"I remember reading about a lake in the new world that was supposed to be bottomless," Paul mused. "I think that would be the perfect analogy for where your wife will want to toss you if you don't answer that correctly."

"What is the correct answer?" Clément leaned closer to the table.

"I don't know."

"I don't think any man knows," Nadir looked philosophical. "At least not the first six or seven times. Then you hit on something that comes close and stick with that answer."

A collective sigh ran between them, each man was already preparing what to say the next time that most frightening of situations presented itself.

They sent Clément and Paul home in cabs. Erik offered to walk Radégonde to his hotel.

Nadir tagged along. "By this time tomorrow you will be a husband, Erik."

The mask man nodded, seeming to be caught up in thought. Nadir grinned at the prospect of his companion still stewing over not being allowed to see Mirielle before the wedding. Erik had been the soul of righteous indignation earlier when he said he might 'wander by' the apartment to check on her. They had all warned him that she would not be happy over it.

"I suppose Josette will be back by now." Radé shoved his hands in his pockets. The February night air was still heavy with damp that clung in tiny shinning droplets on their coats. Their breath turned to amorphous clouds.

"It depends upon how complicated Mirielle's design was. It can take hours and several women working from what I remember."

"It's beautiful," Erik remarked. "The brides always looked so beautiful."

"We were all young and full of hope," Nadir added. "Young and sure that the world would stop when we told it to. We would never grow as old as our parents."

Radé glanced at the Persian. "You were married?"

"Yes. Saraz became my wife at sixteen. She was murdered when she was twenty-three."

"I'm very sorry," Radé replied softly.

"It's how Erik and I met." Nadir clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. "I had been the chief of police, the daroga, for just over a year. I was awarded the position by the Shah, and some of my competition was enraged over the shifting of political power between the Shah and his mother the Khanum. "

"One of the others paid for a man to attack Nadir's wife and make it look like banditry," Erik filled in the silence, his breath floating like a dark wraith. "I found them, and got the truth out of them." His voice took on an edge. "I also executed them for it."

Radégonde huddled in his coat. The idea of Josette alone and defenseless facing a hired assassin made his feel ill. "I can't imagine how horrible it was for you."

"I might not have gone on if it weren't for the desire to see these people punished. I went along with the idea of justice, but Erik took care of the truly guilty party. Being that man and I were both of very thin but distinct ties to royalty, the Shah would not allow him to be arrested. I was willing to bide me time. I thought. When the man disappeared, and the body was found later, I knew that the Shah had allowed Erik to find him."

"He didn't want a bloody trail," Erik said. "But the Shah understood that such bravado was not to be born. Other men might take up ideas and his death might be next."

"You killed a man?"

"I was Death's own messenger for hundreds." The light of a street lamp ran like streams of ice over the black silk of Erik's mask as he looked at Radégonde. "One day I was a magician, an oddity. The next, I was the hand of the Khanum."

"How the world changes in a day." Nadir sighed.

"I think I'd like a cognac by the fire." Erik turned to Nadir. "Care to stop by for an hour?"

Nadir slid a glance at Radégonde. "Why not?"

Erik gestured towards the hotel door. "You can call it an evening, or you can get your sketchbook. You were curious about my occupation."

Radégonde went still. "The Opera?"

Erik's voice changed, sounding mischievous. "Hurry up. We'll call a cab."

Radégonde took off like a shot. Nadir walked to the curb. "He knows?"

"He guessed. I didn't think it worth a lie. He is going to be my son-in-law."

A short time later they arrived at the edge of the lake and sat in the boat while Radégonde's hand moved in a blur. Page after page was filled before they finally got him into the house.


	72. The Vachon Wedding

**Chapter Seventy: The Vachon Wedding**

Radégonde closed the door as quietly as he could. The lights were out except for the glow from the small fireplace. Josette lay on the bed, propped up on pillows. She lifted a hand. "How was your dinner?"

He pulled off his jacket and tossed it down on the small bench at the foot of the bed. "It was fabulous," he said softly. "Everything was amazing. The restaurant was exotic, the food, the music—they even had those water pipes. Paul tried it."

Josette giggled. "Remember Hilaire didn't like it when Paul smoked a pipe? I wonder what she'll say about this."

Radé clasped Josette's slim hand. "How was your party?"

"Perfect. The ladies were wonderful. You should see Mama's hands. The decoration is beautiful."

"How long does it last?"

"It will fade in about ten days Hala said. It covers both her hands and looks almost like a lace glove when you glance at them."

"Between the restaurant and the henna, this whole wedding seems almost magical, doesn't it?"

Josette nodded the fire light tracing her hair and reflected in her eyes. "It's like a fairy tale. I think Mama and Erik will be very happy together."

"Yes. They are perfect for each other."

She withdrew her fingers from his and traced a circle over his knuckles. "The other ladies at the party can get decorations, too."

"Did you?" He caught her hand and turned it, looking at the surface.

"Mine isn't on my hand."

His mouth went dry as Josette slid the sheet down her body. Around her naval was a swirl. Rising from it was a vine-like line that ran up her torso to end in a leaf-like arabesque the lay on the swell of a breast. He traced the line across the plane of her stomach. "Its beautiful, Josette."

* * *

Breakfast finished, and the paper read, Erik sat serenely watching the clock over his mantelpiece. In a few hours was the most important appointment he had ever had in his life.

Bathed and in his shirt and vest, he trod back and forth between his kitchen and his bedroom carrying candle sticks. Lining the tops of the nightstands were all the candle holders and candelabra he had in the house.

The bucket for the ice and the champagne were on the table in the kitchen. He went back to the bedroom and turned back the tops of the sheets, tucking them neatly. The heat would be left on low so that the house was warm upon their return. On Mirielle's pillow he draped a square of velvet with the necklace he had made for her with the matching stone.

A small jar and duster sat on his side of the bed. The pot contained dried Indian honey to be dusted over a lover's skin and removed in a myriad of ways. Erik had ordered it from a catalog and held it in reserve for their special night.

Looking at his pocket watch, the bells announcing Nadir's arrival should be going off any minute.

* * *

Hilaire finished the last curl near her mother's neck and sat the curling iron down. "You are going to look lovely, Mama."

Mirielle took a deep breath. "Two hours. I can't believe I'm getting married in two hours." She saw Catherine behind her in the mirror grinning.

"We could pass the time playing cards," Paul suggested. He sat on the floor with Henri who stacked one block atop another with a look of intense concentration.

"Paul, did I give you the ring?" Mirielle asked over her shoulder.

"Yes. Have it in my pocket."

"Pants pocket or coat pocket?"

"Pants, Mirielle. I could leave my coat somewhere, but never my pants."

She heaved a sigh. "Can you believe this? I'm nervous!"

Catherine rubbed Mirielle's shoulders. "It's your wedding. You have every right to be nervous and happy."

Mirielle glanced at the mantel clock in the small mirror before her. "I wish the time would fly."

* * *

Nadir watched as Erik prowled his parlor. He had picked up and refolded the newspaper, and then started pushing things around on one of the shelves.

"Would you like a feather duster?" Nadir grinned. "If you are going to keep moving things around, you might as well dust."

Erik slid a dark glance at his best man. "Did I give you Mirielle's ring?"

Nadir pulled out a handkerchief. Knotted at the center was a gold band. He held it up between them and wiggled it in the light of the lamp. "It's in my coat pocket." Pocketing the ring, he drew up the newspaper once again. "Stop pacing. You are starting to make me nervous."

Erik stopped before his fireplace, the dark mask tilted as if he were listening to something. "Weren't you the one that said things go wrong at weddings?"

Nadir dropped the paper to gaze directly at Erik. "In a few hours, the die will be cast. Whether we are missing rings or have wilted flowers or torn lace or missing cufflinks, you _will_ be married."

Erik took a seat on the sofa. "It's important to me."

"I know. It's important to all of us who will be there. Once we set foot in the church, it will be over so quickly you will wonder why you ever worried over it. Don't forget you are to drop the ring. It shakes the bad luck out so your marriage will be blessed."

"I remember. How long will it take?"

"The ceremony? Probably an hour. You're Catholic, so everyone will go in and kneel and then get up and sit. The priest will start and then everyone will get up, kneel again, and take a seat after a prayer. The priest tells the two of you to take your vows and then everyone gets up to kneel again in prayer and then sits back down. The two of you are pronounced man and wife and everyone can stand up and leave."

Erik chuckled. "It sounds like we shall all be taking exercise."

"It's much simpler in Persia." Nadir looked over the top of the paper. "The only rush will be to get you to the registrar's office so France will acknowledge you as married."

"God is more important than the bureaucrats."

"I feel much the same way. Married in the eyes of the Almighty is the marriage of the soul. France just wants to sell you a notarized piece of paper for five Francs."

"Where was the registrar's office?"

"Seven blocks away. We can take a cab there and then meet at the restaurant for the reception." He slid a hand in to an inner pocket in his jacket. "I have the address right here and the number of the office. Since your nuptials will take place at eleven, we have plenty of time to get to the office before it closes."

"Good." Erik patted his vest pocket and looked at his watch. "Time to finish dressing." His smile flashed at the bottom of the dark mask.

Erik stepped out of his door. Before him, Nadir's feet crunched in the loose gravel against which lapped the edge of the lake. The water whispered as Erik pushed the boat away from the shore to glide silently towards the cement quay on the other side. Alighting, their footsteps rasped against the stone and brick that led up to the opera house.

His steps felt energized. Outside the building the sun shone brightly over the streets of Paris. The chill in the air was sharp and crisp. February provided few blooms, and Nadir had been diligent to secure what was available from the florists for the ceremony. Erik doubted he would even notice the flowers. He wanted only to see Mirielle.

La Madeleine's Corinthian columns came into view from the cab as they traveled down the Boulevard des Capucines. Each rhythmic clop of the hooves brought him closer. He checked his watch once more. They were going to be a half hour early, but Nadir said it would be better to do so in case any last questions came up.

Stepping to the curb, the wind lifted the tails of his greatcoat and teased the brim of his hat. Erik took each stair, listening to the sounds of the city fall away. Through the great doors, the quiet of the sanctuary fold around him. Walking down the aisle, Erik felt he might float.

Having lived a thousand nightmares, he was aware he was in a dream again. This one was beautiful in its hushed expectancy. At the altar were splashes of flowers and a lavender cloth that snaked along a rail. Above it all arose Mary being lifted by two angels, their great wings fold and arms outstretched.

Sounds receded behind him. Nadir led him to a side room where they hung up their coats and hats. He turned to shake the hand of a man Nadir announced was the priest. Father Declassé would have made a rather rusty tenor, Erik mused. And then Nadir patted his shoulder. "It's time, my friend."

Erik walked to the door, and took his place at the front of the church. Hands folded before him he stood watching as the doors opened and Mirielle approached. A trio of voices sang as she drew closer. She stopped and turned, her eyes smiling. Erik listened to the prayer, the voices, Paul giving her away, and then the words he waited for began. "Do you, Erik, take this woman…"

A good performer never rushes his lines. Patiently, Erik repeated the words he had always hoped but never thought he would say.

Mirielle replied. "To be my husband…." She sounded breathy and her hand shook.

Nadir was pressing something in his hand. Erik lifted the ring, opening his fingers, he let it fall to the marble beneath their feet.

The sound of the band hitting the floor was louder than any orchestra's cymbal. It rang again, moving away at an increasing staccato. Mirielle's mouth formed a perfect o, and Erik's head swung to follow the receding sound of the ring.

He looked out at a sea of colors and faces. Chairs were hastily scooted aside, and a murmur of quiet laughter echoed through the sanctuary. He strode to the first row and dipped to snatch up the ring as it twirled in a circle, aware for the first time that people had attended his wedding.

"That should shake out all the bad luck." Nadir's bemused voice set off another wave of gentle laugher. The faces smiled happily. There were tears in Josette's eyes and Catherine's. Ursulé clung to her beau. Little Henri sat on Hilaire's lap. There were faces he didn't know, and faces from the opera, and faces that he had never thought to see again.

He brushed the ring on his jacket and returned to stand with Mirielle. ""With this ring I thee wed, and pledge thee my troth." The ring slid to rest on her small finger.

Erik offered his hand. Mirielle's eyes glistened as she pushed the ring onto his finger. "…I thee wed…"

He helped her kneel for the final prayer, and then they stood. Father Declassé announced in a louder voice, "I present to you Monsieur and Madame Vachon."

Erik rested Mirielle's arm in his. She squeezed his fingers with a smile. Together they walked down the aisle.


	73. Receptions

**Chapter Seventy-one: Receptions**

The bells rang overhead as Erik guided Mirielle to the door of the church to Handel's _La Rejoissance_. Pausing he gazed at her flush, smiling face.

"I love you," she whispered.

A deep voice interrupted his ready reply. "Congratulations." Erik turned and began what seemed an endless stream of handshaking. Nadir and Catherine circulated telling people about the reception. When the opportunity presented itself, Erik took hold of his wife's hand and started backing down the steps. Mirielle followed his lead. Lifting the small bouquet she carried, she waved. "We'll see you all at the reception!"

Cab drivers, being canny opportunists, began pulling over and lining up before the steps. Erik waited at the cab door for Nadir and Catherine, who were to sign as witnesses at the registrar's office. Helping Mirielle into the cab, they pulled away from the curb with obvious sighs of relief.

"That was beautifully done, Mirielle," Catherine said. She smiled at Nadir and clutched his arm. "Our fabulous General oversaw it all to perfection."

"Yes, Nadir, thank you," Erik agreed. "You haven't lost your talent for setting up an arrest." Mirielle's gaze turned quizzical. "This is one sentence I shall diligently see to the end."

"You old fox," Mirielle grinned.

Erik traced the dark lines upon her hand with a fingertip. "This is no walk-on role. This is forever."

His wife smiled all the way up the two flights of stairs to the registrar's office where they penned their names to become a part of the documents that fitted two lives together under one name in Paris' history.

Nadir had secured the _Alborz_ for the afternoon, complete with the addition of the champagne from Reims and the _Sofreh aghd_. Erik had never seen the restaurant filled from wall to wall. Feeling a bit foolish, he hadn't remembered all of these people at his wedding.

He circulated with Mirielle receiving handshakes and chatting until Nadir caught everyone's attention and directed them to come to the table. Seated before the _Sofreh aghd_, Nadir explained what the dishes and adornment meant. Central to the table was a silver-framed, circular mirror. Erik ignored his masked reflection; he used the silvered surface to look at the crowd of faces that listened.

"Now, as Best Man, I have one bit of advice for my friend," Nadir said.

Erik cringed. Nadir had the habit of learning quotes phonetically rather than by their meaning. This could turn ugly.

Nadir picked up a small container of honey. "In Persia, the honey represents the sweetness brought to a marriage." He held the container, which Erik dipped his little finger into. Mirielle followed his lead. Erik lifted his finger to her lips. With a promising grin she licked the honey, then offered hers. Their guests murmured their appreciation as Erik licked her finger slowly.

Nadir place Mirielle's hand on the table and Erik's over it. "Take a good look, my friend; for this is the last opportunity you will have to have the upper hand.

The laughter began to fill the restaurant. Josette and Hilaire, as Mirielle's female relatives, held the cloth over the couples head while two sugar cones where crushed over it, signifying a happiness and sweetness.

It was all beautiful, with his smiling wife at the center, their hands linked, their wedding rings glowing in the light of candles. They greeted each of their guests. Erik was amazed to see Enrico Ortiz, one of the dancers who had left Paris to return to Spain chatting with Catherine Chislova. He took Mirielle over to meet them.

Catherine was understated but resplendent in dark blue. She shook hands, and placed a kiss on Mirielle's cheek. "Take care of him for us. He is very special, but I think you know that already." She gathered Enrico's arm in hers. "Erik, help me. Tell this man to stop wasting his talents in Spain and come to Russia!"

Erik shook the younger man's hand. "She's right. The heart of ballet has left Europe. Kiev is the place to go. You will be treated as you deserve." The man seemed reluctant. Erik stepped closer to him. "If money is a difficulty tell us. Catherine and I can help you, I'm sure."

"Thank you, but you did enough for a suffering student years ago. I will think about Russia."

"Don't think too long," Catherine teased. She indicated a woman sitting along the wall. "Do you remember her Erik? Katie, who was a companion to Princess Alice?"

"Yes, I do." He released Mirielle. "I'll be right back."

Katie looked up as he approached, her clear blue eyes holding a hint of sadness. Erik reached for her hand. "I am sorry for your loss. The Princess was truly a wonderful woman."

Katie sniffed. "She would have loved to see this. Weddings made her happy. She spoke of you several times to her husband. She wanted a chance to see another Opera, but politics being what they are…"

"The German question? She supported her adopted country bravely. I understand her daughter died as well."

"Little May, she was only four years old."

"Are you staying in Germany?"

"No, it is the time for the Duke to remarry. I've been thinking of visiting with Catherine for a while."

Erik nodded. "Catherine has started a family. You might find Russia suits you."

"Congratulations on your nuptials. It was a beautiful ceremony, even when you dropped the ring."

"Let me introduce you to my wife." He led her into the midst of the conversing people, back into the world she would have to go on living in without her dearest friend.

As the celebrations wound down, Erik glanced at Nadir who headed for the door to call a cab. He stepped back inside with a quick nod. Erik stood and thanked everyone. With a good-bye, he and his wife withdrew.

* * *

He hadn't realized how tired he was from all of this business of marriage until the cab stopped at the Rue Scribe gate. Guiding Mirielle through the dark, they stopped at the edge of the lake as the lights in the house came on brightly. 

Mirielle leaned against his side. "Happy?"

"Yes." He kissed her upturned nose.

"Let's go home."

Across the lake in the boat to land on the gravel shore, he pushed open the door and swept his wife up into his arms. "I believe this is customary."

Mirielle snuggled with an arm around his neck. "You're just showing off those muscles of yours," she teased.

"Is it working? I can impress you in other ways."

"Oh," she purred. "Exactly how--."

A sharp shriek split the air. Erik turned away from the sound, shielding Mirielle.

"I knew it!" A masculine voice growled. "He lied! He lied to bring you back!"

A day of dreams began to sink into nightmare. "What are you doing here?' Erik challenged the blond man before him. From behind him a pair of blue eyes appeared.

"Erik?"

The floor dropped out from under him. "Christine?" Erik gritted his teeth. "I'm going to torture Nadir for this!"

Raoul de Chagny was speaking loudly, Christine was hovering behind him, and then Mirielle was between them all. "Nadir didn't invite them. I did."

The sudden silence in the room almost hurt his ears. "What? Why?" Erik glowered at de Chagny once again. "It's our wedding night!"

"I saw it in the paper," Christine's bell-like voice found his ear, bringing a shiver to him. "I thought you were dead."

"She came back as promised," de Chagny spat. "What a surprise it is all a lie once again to lure her here!"

"No one did any luring, young man," Mirielle drew herself up and extended a hand. "Perhaps you should take a seat."

"It's our wedding night, Mirielle," Erik exploded. "The last people I wish to see, if I wished any at all, would not be these two."

Christine stepped from behind Raoul, her fair face as lovely as ever except for the frown that creased it. "You don't want to see me?'

De Chagny flung an arm before her. "Stay away from him. This is some ruse I tell you."

"We can get this over quickly, but if everyone is going to stand here and yell at one another, we will be here all night," Mirielle reminded them.

"Over_his_ dead body," Erik groused.

Christine's darling cupid's bow lips turned down at the corners. "He's my husband, Erik."

"Congratulations." Erik slid an arm around Mirielle's waist. "This is my beautiful wife. I believe I got the better end of the deal on this one, Christine."

De Chagny's face was adopting a more florid color. Mirielle tsked. "Sit down you two. Erik, why don't you open the champagne? I think we will all need a drink."

Erik took off his coat. "Yes they can drink to our health and then get the H---."

"Darling! Not in front of guests!" Mirielle looked peevish. Not the sort of face he'd hoped to see on her this night of all nights. "Sit everyone," she commanded.

Christine looked stunned, but then, she always did look wide-eyed. It did not mean that her mind was not furiously forming questions. Erik turned and headed for the kitchen and the one cold bottle he had prepared.

He returned and sat four glasses down inelegantly and watched de Chagny squirm while he twisted off the foil from the bottle's cork. _That could be your neck._

"Introduce us, dear man." Mirielle smiled serenely.

"This is Christine Daaé."

"de Chagny now," Christine corrected.

Erik stabbed a finger at Raoul. "That's her husband." He stood beside Mirielle's chair. "This is my wife, Mirielle Vachon."

"Your name is Vachon?" Christine smiled. It faded quickly as she glanced at her husband. "Sit down, Raoul."

"Yes, have a seat. My manners were a bit remiss the last time you were here," Erik reminded him.

Raoul glared at Mirielle. "He tried to kill us, Nadir and I, when we came to rescue Christine."

Mirielle looked dubious. "I believe if Erik had wanted you dead, it would have been done quite efficiently."

"He was going to blow up the Opera if Christine did not vow to marry him."

"I know." There was an uncomfortable silence. "I know most of the story from Erik and some from Nadir."

"What did he tell you?" Erik demanded darkly.

"Just details," Mirielle soothed. "I'm afraid you two were supposed to arrive in a few days, not on the precise day of our wedding."

Raoul sat beside his wife. "She was upset thinking his body might be here. We left by train yesterday."

"Well, be that as it may. I had Nadir put the notice in the paper so that we could have a chance to meet."

"But why?" Erik asked.

"For closure. For one last chance to make things right between all of you. I don't think M. de Chagny nor his wife want to spend the rest of their lives waiting for that notice to free them from the fear of the man you were."

Hearing her say it—it did seem fair. He'd promised to let them go shortly before the fever grew worse. Considering his desperation, they might always have looked over their shoulders.

Erik reached for his wife's hand. "You are very wise, my dear." He glanced over at the two young people. "But it is my wedding night. What are we going to do with them?"

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for being patient as the story nears the end. I've been working on a submission for a Phantom related anthology a few of us are putting together. 


	74. Golden Bands

**Chapter Seventy-two: Golden Bands**

A taut silence filed his house. Erik barely spared a glance at de Chagny who stood almost quivering with anger. It was Christine's confused face that tugged at his heart.

"I suppose you have already found a hotel," Mirielle said.

"One that leaves a night light burning for Raoul?" Erik grinned fiercely as the boy stiffened.

"Erik," Mirielle gritted through clenched teeth.

Raoul looked down his aristocratic nose. "Some things never change."

"Not at all," Erik reassured him. "I see you still haven't mastered the art of a witty retort."

"This should not take long," Mirielle interrupted. "I thought it best to clear the air."

"Of what?" Christine asked. "When I left, I promised to return." She looked down at the ring upon her hand. "I promised."

Erik found himself drawn to examine the girl. She looked small, as if some sadness was pulling her deeper into herself. "Child, you look upset. Are you disappointed I'm alive?"

Her bright blue eyes fixed upon his. "No. I'm—I'm confused."

Mirielle moved to sit beside the younger woman. "Let me ask you," she began, glancing up at Raoul, "if you did come back to bury him, what would you have done next?"

Christine's alabaster skin had always appeared so perfect, so untouchable. Now it began to look as if it were brittle, a porcelain copy of the lovely girl who had left over a year before. Erik waited for her to answer.

"We would go back north." Christine glanced at Raoul.

"You say north. You have not settled anywhere yet?" Erik asked.

Raoul crossed his arms over his chest, a muscle leaped in his jaw. Evidently there was discord between the younger couple.

"Raoul's aunts don't think I'm suitable," Christine said in a low voice.

Mirielle shook her head. "Is that where your problems lie?"

Both Christine and Raoul looked everywhere but at one another. Mirielle sat forward and patted Christine's hand. "Let me tell you how I see all of this transpiring. You promised when you saw the ad in the newspaper to come and bury the, um, body. You haven't really made any plans beyond that have you?"

"No," Raoul answered. "She has always been concerned that she might miss the news and not fulfill her promise."

"So like an unwound clock, your lives exist without time moving forward." Mirielle paused, smiling sadly. "I felt like that when my husband was dying. As if all the world ceased, and we were prisoners to the moment that the end would come. But life goes on."

Erik watched the couple. They appeared wary and temporarily blinded by a light that they had not anticipated. Had his last request been so thoughtless?

Mirielle continued, "I put the ad in the paper so that you would return and find that it was time to move on. Coming here would mean saying goodbye to more than Erik, wouldn't it Christine?"

"What do you mean?" Christine's feigned innocence failed to mask her wary glace at the older woman.

"I mean your career would be over, young lady. There would no longer be bright footlights or adoring audiences. All those months of lessons would be wasted, and your golden voice would not be heard again. As long as the Angel of Music existed, you were still his muse. When he was gone, and you left the stage, Paris would soon forget the little Swedish soprano who had astounded the world. You see, when you slipped that ring upon your finger, it was as if your voice were chained. Bringing it here and leaving it with Erik would have freed you—but it really wouldn't, would it?"

"No." Erik shook his head. "That isn't what I meant when I said to bring it back. I only wanted to think someone would care that I was gone. I didn't mean for you to dig the hole and jump into it! You were supposed to be happy. And then you might remember poor, unhappy Erik kindly."

He motioned to Christine's hand and the ring. "It's for you…and for him, the wedding gift of Erik's. I know you love him." Tears shimmered in her eyes. "Don't cry anymore. I wanted you happy, Christine."

Raoul sat beside his wife, an arm gathering her close to him. "Do you wish to stay? Will you sing again?"

Christine dashed a tear from her cheek. "But your aunts--."

Mirielle clicked her tongue. "Forget the old women! Once you are famous and settle down with babies, they will come around."

Raoul looked pained. "Not my aunts."

Mirielle's brows rose. "Oh. There's your first tough crowd, my girl," she said archly. "Once your name is on everyone's lips, the old women won't be able to look down upon the toast of Paris."

Christine let slip a pained smile. "I haven't sung in so long." She looked up at her husband, and then at Erik.

"It would be a mortal sin to hide your talent," he told her. "God gave it to you, Christine. I only showed you what could be done with it. I never meant for you to stop singing."

Raoul hugged her tight. " Do you want it? You were so beautiful on stage."

"Alive," Erik corrected. "More alive than some people will ever have the chance to be."

Christine smiled though her tears. "I'll need time to practice."

Mirielle rose and took hold of Erik's arm. "All of that can start later. Right now you need to go rest and let us get on with our wedding night."

Erik lifted his wife's hand and brushed a kiss on the golden band. "Yes. Give me a day or two. Then come see me in box five and we shall work on those lessons."

"Only two days?" Mirielle pouted, batting her eyelashes.

Erik looked hard at his wife's lips and remembered the bedroom and the dried honey. "Make that next week." At the shocked looks on the young couple's face he added. "It's been nice to see you, wish you could have seen the wedding and all that, but get out. We can resume this later."

Mirielle insisted on seeing the couple to the door. Raoul still hovered between Erik and Christine as she reached out a hand. She shook hands shyly with Mirielle. They both glanced back over their shoulders as they approached the boat, as if they expected to be followed. Christine gave a little wave as her husband pushed the boat away from the shore.

Watching the lantern at the stern of the boat swing back and forth, Erik snorted. "I still don't see why she married him. He's so uncoordinated he can't even row the boat correctly. She'll be sick by the time they reach the quay. The boy has no sense of rhythm."

Mirielle leaned against the doorframe looking every inch like a starving wolf. "You don't have that problem do you?"

Erik slammed the door and locked it. He hadn't meant to, but had his wife half out of her dress by the time they reached the hallway. He sent her to the water closet to finish while he lit the candles and waited in his robe.

She appeared at the bedroom door, wearing something shimmering and white. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her hennaed hands. "Come here, wife."

Candle light danced mischievously along the lines of her robe and caught in her dark hair. He reached to take her hands, her palms sliding over his. "Woman, you are more intriguing than any creature has the right to be." He aligned his longer fingers with her upraised ones, placing a kiss on each finger tip. "An-ti-ci-pa-tion, thy name is woman."

"I thought it was frailty."

"My God, I'd never use that word. I'd use dozens to describe your shape, and thousands for your soul, but I still would be speechless before you." Erik curled her fingers in his and led her to the bed. "My gift."

Mirielle drew in a breath, one hennaed hand lifted to her lips. Erik lifted the blue diamond pendant and draped it around her neck. He guided her to the small mirror inside the door of his wardrobe and stood behind her, watching her face as she stared at her reflection.

"You are so good to me," she whispered. "It is beautiful."

He wrapped his arms around her waist. "Did it really happen? Did we stand in church and take our vows?"

"Yes."

"I had your ring inscribed."

"What does it say?"

"I wanted _Pari passu. _ It is Latin for side by side, where I will always want you. But I changed it at the last." He slipped the ring from her finger.

Mirielle brought it to the light of a candle. "I choose us." She slid it back onto her finger. "Why don't you see what I had engraved on yours?"

He slid his off and bent near to read it, almost choking on the words. "Beautiful in my eyes."

She ran her lovely hands up his lapels. "You are."

Erik swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. "I love you, Mirielle. I'll spend the rest of my years making you happy."

His wife grinned shyly, "That is easy. Take me to an Opera."

She leaned close and Erik kissed her softly. "That is only our second kiss, wife."

"Many more will come, husband." She sighed as his hands ran down her sides. "Lover…."

Erik watched her hands slide up and under his robe, pushing it open. The dark designs on her fingers moved hypnotically across his chest, down his ribs, and settle upon his hips.

"Do you know what I love about you?" she asked. "Every moment is an adventure. You take handfuls of life and won't let them go."

"I never lived until I found you." He waltzed her over to the mirror again. "Let me watch those beautiful hands of yours."

Mirielle leaned back against him. She slowly untied her robe. Running her hands along the material, she let the robe drape down her arms. With a sensuous shrug, it fell to her waist. The diamond caught the light that caressed her breasts. She pushed aside the robe and let it pool at their feet.

Erik caught her wrist, running her hand slowly up her thigh to her stomach, and up to his lips. The dark lines stood starker against his masked face. "You are so sensuous, my little houri." He kissed the back of her neck and ran his hands over her, up her arms and down her flanks. He grasped her hips and nibbled at her shoulder. "My beautiful wife."

They played this game for long minutes. Whispering in her ear, he sent teasing fingers over her body and down her thighs. They let time stand still and the world creep out of their thoughts to fill their night sky with each other. His teasing whispers made his wife giggle, her hands kept him entranced.

Erik stepped in front of her and knelt, lifting her body and carrying her to his bed. Her arms around his neck, her hair brushing his mask, she smiled against his lips. He sat her down, sliding down the length of his body. Grabbing hold of a length of cloth, he spread a layer of silk over the bed. Scooping her up, he lay her down upon the golden folds. With a flourish, he produced the jar and the feather whisk. "Honey for a honeymoon."

"Mmmm. You old fox."

Erik unscrewed the lid and tossed it onto the bedside table. "The lady protests?" He twirled the feathers in the dust and tapped the whisk lightly. Leaning over his wife, he painted a trail of golden powder across her collar bone. His lips followed swiftly, tongue laving over the sweet powder.

"What is it?"

"Dried honey." He dipped the brush and twirled it on her cheek, bestowing a loud smacking kiss.

Mirielle giggled. "Fox."

"At your command." He dusted the valley between her breasts and added an extra dollop on her nipples which he teased with slow lapping strokes of his tongue.

"Randy satyr," she moaned.

Erik twirled the brush in her navel. "Oh, I like the sound of that." He dived in and sucked loudly, setting off another wave of laughter from his wife. He worked his way down her thighs to the tops of her feet. Glancing up, he saw Mirielle had covered her mouth and was laughing in earnest.

He dipped the brush and spread the honey over her in quick crossed strokes, then offered her the jar and the whisk. She rolled to her side and looked critically at the landscape of his body. Looking up through her lashes she grinned. "Where to begin?"

Erik watched her eyes settle on a particular part of his body. "Have mercy."

She didn't. She found every spot that made him squirm and stiffen and feel his toes curl. Suffering valiantly, he closed his eyes. Behind the backs of his eyelids, he saw paradise open its glowing marble gates. Standing with a come-hither look was Mirielle, halo a kilter.

When she finished, she crawled up his body on the hands and knees. She collapsed against him with a sigh. Erik feathered a touch up and down her arm, watching the light from the candles dance on the ceiling. With a sigh he turned to look at her. She gazed steadily at him, lifting a finger to touch his mask gently along his cheek. "I love you."

He rolled her onto her back and slid swiftly into her waiting body. They writhed deeper into sexual excess with each joyful stroke until they both melted as pleasure took them. Rising on his arms, Erik looked down into the satiated eyes of his wife and emptied his very soul into her.

Laying by her side, he pulled the golden cloth over them both, knowing when he opened his eyes, Mirielle would always be there.

And so would her randy satyr.


	75. Matchmaker

**Chapter Seventy-three: Matchmaker**

Mirielle pulled at the covers. Reaching out, she noted the lack of one warm body. Was it morning already? As she peered out from the covers, she saw a wavering glow approaching. Remembering what had happened last night as the candles went out, she pulled the satin over her face.

The glow traveled next to the bed, and a fingertip traced her shoulder. She lifted her hands to the top of the material, and pulled it down slowly to her chin. Erik looked down at her, with the mask on once again.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly.

"I think I awoke because I was cold," she pouted.

He adopted a chagrined look. "Little rogue. Am I your hot water bottle now?" He grinned as he finished.

She stuck out her bottom lip. "I miss my husband. Isn't that a good thing?"

Erik sat on the bed. "Yes. It is a very good thing." He pulled the cover away and nipped at her shoulder.

They were both silent for a time, letting the quiet speak the words that would only fall useless. How does a woman thank a man for a great gift? Not the one that still rested upon her breast, or the ring upon her finger, but for the moment when the candles had guttered and died, leaving them together in the complete darkness. The silken slither of the mask had sounded so faint she might have mistook it over their breathing. But the feel of his strange flesh against her cheek had pierced her heart and made her curl up beside him and let drop quiet tears in the night.

_Beautiful in my eyes…_

Perhaps the inscription had sealed the truth inside his heart as much as it had in hers. She had been intrigued by the irascible curmudgeon who called the Opera home, and had fallen in love with the tender and lonely man who had allowed her a glimpse of his true self. Love meant that one saw with the heart. Or at least felt with the cheek the strange, rough texture of her husband's face.

Regardless of the light being out, he had ventured to pull the mask off in their moment of passion. Mirielle didn't doubt she looked like the cat who ate the canary.

"Do you need anything before I put the light out?" he asked.

Mirielle batted her eyes and pulled aside the sheet. "Just my husband."

* * *

When she finally got out of bed, Erik pressed a cup of coffee into her hands, and guided her to an already steaming tub. They had each dressed quietly and then met before the door.

Erik pulled it open. "We'll have about an hour before the trains leave."

"Thank you, Erik." Mirielle paused to look out at the lake. Across its smooth glasslike surface glided the boat. "How do you do that?"

Erik took her elbow and guided her to the edge of the water. "The siren is bringing it over."

"The what?"

"The siren."

Mirielle glanced down into the darkened water only to see her own quizzical expression looking back. "Are you saying you have a fish in there?"

"No, no, no. A siren. You remember those mythological creatures who sang so sweetly that sailors were lured to wreck their ships." He turned away before she could assess if he were being playful.

She looked down in the water, seeing neither rope nor any other means which might have brought the boat over. She had never seen any current to speak of as they had crossed. Erik turned a wrist, his long fingers opening slowly. "Shall we?"

Mirielle settled on the small bench. Despite believing Erik was up to some mischief, she did cast more than one glance down into the water as it eddied around the boat.

* * *

They said goodbye to Paul and Hilaire first. Mirielle helped Henri into the sweater she knitted and Erik offered him a small carved boat. Grandpapa held him until his wife insisted they had to get Josette on the train.

Radégonde had filled his sketchbook while Josette had talked to Catherine and Galina about Russia. Alexei Sviatoslav settled the bill with the hotel while Vasili Romanov chivied the porters to see the luggage to the trains. In one short half hour, Erik and Mirielle stood in the train station once again saying goodbye.

"Would you like to have lunch somewhere?" Erik asked.

His wife glanced around the station. "Oh, I don't care. I haven't made any plans, have you?"

Stepping out of the station, the church bells chimed over the roofs of Paris.

"No." Taking his wife's arm he looked up into the brightly lit sky with its light dusting of white clouds. "Do you really think that Christine and Raoul were unhappy?"

"I thought they might be uncertain, and that would lead to unhappiness. I know you wouldn't want that for her."

"No. I meant for her to be happy. I truly did. Even if it was with that--."

"Now, darling."

Erik smiled at his wife. "You are too generous, you know that."

"I am?"

"Yes you are."

"Is it so wrong to offer a little happiness to others?"

"Not in my case," he replied happily.

"Thank you, dear man. You know, you aren't so bad at it yourself."

"What? Me? What on earth do you mean?"

"Well, you saved the Opera."

"Certainly. Anyone would do that."

"You courted me."

"Well, there was my biggest mistake," he teased. His wife threw him a pouty look.

"There's Nadir and Catherine, and Ursulé and Clement, and then there is Denis and Dragos. You've turned out to be quite a matchmaker."

Erik halted on the sidewalk, peering at his wife. "You think I'm responsible for all of that?" he asked incredulous.

"In a roundabout way you are," she agreed. "It is all a result of us."

Erik chuckled. "Never pictured myself in the role of cupid."

"Maybe Eros?" she teased.

He adopted his fiercest look. "Is that a challenge, little rogue?"

Mirielle didn't answer. Erik had a superb memory. He'd remind her of her teasing when they returned to the privacy of their bedroom.

Erik guided Mirielle across the street. The Phantom of the Opera and his wife went for a walk in the park.

The End

A/N: Yes. There it is. Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers. A simple 'I'm reading' now and then is what inspires the authors on. For those ofy ou who wish to see the missing Mature chapter sections-my web page is now up. Masters of night dot com. Look under the 'Fiction' tab.


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